


exsultate, jubilate

by torrentialTriages



Series: i'll sing of thee [1]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Abusive/Negligent Parents, Bonding Via Sharing Deep Dark Secrets With Wildly Varying Levels Of Enthusiasm, F/F, M/M, Mentions of Car Accidents, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Trans Characters, Vivaldi Hate Club, autistic characters, discussion of past alcoholism, orchestra AU, sex implied through dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-11-12 21:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11170467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torrentialTriages/pseuds/torrentialTriages
Summary: An experiment in minimalism, of sorts.The Hephaestus ensemble wants to do greater things, Pryce and Cutter will oblige them this for a price, and Conductor Warren Kepler has much, much more work to put into this ragtag orchestra if he wants to achieve anything worth something.





	1. August - 15/08/16 & 22/08/16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title is taken from mozart's exsultate, jubilate (k165). ive only played [the last movement](https://open.spotify.com/track/56NJuKgKPPknCue3x7I9ZV).  
> special and huge shoutout to my artist, friendlydinosaur on tumblr!! thank you so much for putting up with my exorbitant wordcount, indecision on scheduling, and the ridiculously high standards i hold myself to that should not have to apply to everyone else!!

"We're getting a new conductor," Lovelace announces as she storms into the tiny open space of Minkowski's flat after the emergency orchestra meeting. Hera looks up from her spot in the corner, typing up an assignment on her long-suffering laptop. Hilbert, trailing behind her, gives everyone a baleful glare before taking up the other corner.

"What do you mean? Wasn't Minkowski enough?" Eiffel interjects.

"It's part of the terms that the funders set for us at the budget meeting just now," Minkowski supplies as she enters, rubbing wearily at the bridge of her nose. "If we want to have the money and the space to actually practice for once, then we had to accept a new conductor and other players if they 'saw fit'."

Lovelace's mouth is a thin line. "They'll be meeting us at 359 Wolf Street on Monday at 6:00 PM in the basement. From now on, that’ll be our rehearsal time."

"Whaaaaat, that sounds like a murder trap," protests Eiffel as Hera asks, "Wait, how long does it go?"

"Until 8:30."[1] Hera worries her lip, and Minkowski adds, “Dr. Pryce said it was okay, Hera, so...” She trails off into awkward silence. Hera nods curtly, then goes back to work, still biting her lip as she types.

“So,” Eiffel asks. “How _did_ the meeting go?”

Minkowski drops onto the couch opposite him with a _whumph_. “It was... trying,” she admits, a hand over her eyes. “Cutter tore into Hilbert, which... I didn’t know they’d worked together before.”

“I can still hear you,” Hilbert says acridly. Minkowski sighs.

“Sorry, Hilbert. Anyway, Cutter and Pryce know pretty much everything about us. And, honestly, it’s a _little_ terrifying. I can’t stress that enough, I don’t think it’s safe to stay under their patronage for the long-term. But they’re... absurdly willing to fund us, and their conditions don’t sound too unreasonable. Right now, they’re our best bet if we want to actually do anything with this orchestra.”

“You think it’s going to be worth it?” Eiffel asks, glancing at the tuba sitting in its case beside the couch. Minkowski and Lovelace had the highest hopes for this ensemble, but five people was hardly anything worth writing home about.

Lovelace clucks her tongue. “It has to be.”

 

_First rehearsal - 22/08/16_

“So, why are we lugging the Mystery Machine to rehearsal when we could’ve gone individually?” Eiffel sits wedged between Hera and his tuba in the backseat, Hilbert on the other side. "Seriously, this thing's like, Enterprise era."

“It’s better to go in a group,” Minkowski reiterates, hands firm on the steering wheel of her and Koudelka’s failing minivan, “since it’s our first time getting there, and we don’t want to get lost or arrive late.”

“Plus, if we go together we’ll feel more together if they try to pull something on us,” adds Lovelace, grimly gripping the headrest of the passenger seat, turned around to address the backseat.

Hera sits with her mallet bag sitting neatly on her lap. “I don’t think they’d try anything, but... It seems safe to be on the lookout.”

"And besides, what's Hilbert got to do with the Sith recruiters?"

"I don't have to answer that," Hilbert responds stiffly.

 

359 Wolf Street is a charmingly aged redstone building set on the fringes of downtown. It could have been a business in a past life, two stories, two windows set on either side of the door, one window upstairs, glaring red plastic curtain hiding its contents.

“Freaky,” comments Eiffel.

Minkowski elbows him. “Let’s go. The door should be unlocked.”

And indeed, it is. They follow the sign taped to the wall instructing them to go to the basement, the thin beam of light marking the door in the otherwise creepily dark hallway.

Minkowski takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, and they pile into the center of the rehearsal room.

“Oh, hey! You must be the orchestra.” The tall well-built man in the middle of the room beams at them. “Nice to meet y’all.” His voice is a bit thick, muddling his pleasant tone and hint of a drawl. Ruinous scars mar his face, but they somehow add to his charm and, somehow, smolder.

“Thank... you.” Minkowski looks around her. There’s more pianos than strictly necessary, and the music theory posters that line the walls look more sinister than their bright colors had any right to. “Was this... a music lesson place?”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” he says cheerily, waving their concerns away. “Anyway, shall we get introduced? I’m your conductor, you can call me Kepler or sir.” He winks. “I’m not picky.” The worries about 359’s origins still hang in the air.

“Nice to meet you.” Minkowski appears to reorient herself. “I’m Renée Minkowski, I play the violin, and-”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Kepler interrupts, “but we know everything we need to about your orchestra. You can skip the introductions.”

“Oh.” Minkowski blinks, footing lost once more. She struggles to keep her head above water. “That- that’s good.”

"Our lovely clarinetist here is Alana Maxwell," Kepler gestures at a short woman unstacking chairs from the other side of the room.

"Hi," she calls, waving cheerily. “Just call me Maxwell.”

"And our bassist is Daniel Jacobi."

"Sup," deadpans Jacobi, not stopping as he applies resin to his bow. “Just Jacobi.”

"And ah yes, our soloist and concertmaster Rachel Young isn't here yet-"

"What?" Minkowski snaps. "Excuse me? I thought I was going to be the concertmaster."

Kepler looks down his nose at her, amused. "Mr. Cutter and Dr. Pryce did say that we could bring in whichever performers we wanted, didn't they? And you agreed to that?"

Minkowski grinds her teeth.

“I believe you did,” he continues, smiling frostily. “If you want to take it up with Pryce and Cutter, though, I’m sure you’re more than welcome to try, Miss Second Violin.”

Minkowski wrestles with the demotion, trying to come to terms with it while Kepler scans the room.

"Ah, Hera!" Kepler becomes genial, but no one can quite shake the lingering cold of his earlier words. Hera, in turn, looks positively apprehensive. "It... it _is_ Hera, I’ve heard? How are you doing? I haven't seen you in ages."

"I'm fine," she says, very small.

"Good to hear." After a few more seconds of silence, he claps his hands and rubs them together. "Well, if there are no more questions, we should be setting up, shouldn't we?" A murmured grudging assent runs through the assembled members, and they move to comply. “Repertoire discussion in, oh, two minutes.”

As they finish unstacking chairs and set them up in formation, Maxwell interjects, looking at her phone, "Colonel, Rachel says she can't come."

Kepler scowls. "What for?"

Maxwell shrugs. "She just says she can't come."

“Fine,” he growls, then places his hands on the stand in front of him. “Alright, let’s discuss repertoire. Did you have any pieces planned for the concert? December, was it?”

Minkowski opens her mouth, then closes it. “Well, we, ah... no,” she says, finally. “We hadn’t agreed on anything yet.”

Kepler raises his eyebrows. “Alright? Well, if no one has any objections - Maxwell, text this to Ms. Young to see her opinion - I’d like to do, hmm, the first movement of Vivaldi’s Spring Concerto-”

“No,” Minkowski objects, Maxwell’s text notification whooshing a second later. “No Spring Concerto.”

Kepler arches his eyebrows. “Really? It’s a classic.”

“Which is exactly why we shouldn’t do it.”

“Colonel, Rachel just texted back ‘no’ in all caps,” Maxwell chirps, “and- oh, ok, still typing- just more ‘no’s.”

“Any justification?” Kepler is looking more annoyed now.

Maxwell shrugs. “I’ll as- nope, beat me to it. ‘It’s overdone and every violinist is sick and tired of hearing it.’ Also, ‘Tell him I won’t play it if he picks it for us.’” Minkowski looks absolutely vindicated.

Kepler sighs. “Alright. ... Alright. Well. Then we’ll do Autumn. Even... though it’s a violin concerto. Anyone have other ideas?”

Jacobi immediately sticks his hand in the air. “1812 Overture?”

“Nerd,” deadpans Maxwell as Eiffel offers,“I like it.”

Kepler looks thoughtful as others offer mild assent. Jacobi looks mildly betrayed that no one else had matched his enthusiasm. “Very well. It’s down for consideration.” He glances around. “Any other takers?”

“If I may,” Hilbert begins. Kepler cuts him off.

“That’s why I’m asking, isn’t it?” Hilbert looks positively offended, but forges on.

“If we are playing Tchaikovsky, I suggest we play his second symphony.”

Kepler frowns. “Jog my memory?”

“The Little Russian symphony. I thought we would be able to play the fourth movement.”

“Why not the first, _Alexander?_ ” asks Lovelace, tone lightly barbed but not enough to be considered malicious. “Worried you’ll be too tempted to sabotage me again?” Hilbert looks away. The rest of the original orchestra watches silently. They all know too well about the first ensemble Lovelace and Hilbert had tried to start, ending in sabotage and a traumatic hand injury intended for Fisher that left Lovelace incapable of using her hand for half a year, much less playing the horn solo at the beginning of the first movement at the concert. Lovelace had _known_ it was Hilbert’s fault (he hadn’t denied it in all the years after), but somehow the authorities would never take charge. They hadn’t seen their former ensemble colleagues since.

Kepler clears his throat. “If you’re done airing old grievances?” he asks delicately, bored. “There’s  _plenty_ of time to rake Alexander over the coals later.”

Lovelace spares Hilbert one more evil eye before turning balefully to Kepler. He huffs. “I’ll consider it too. I’ve gotta admit I haven’t heard that one.” He shakes his head. “Anyway, I think three pieces is already plenty of work for us, especially considering... well. Everyone here must have busy lives.” The corner of his mouth tilts in a mockery of those he deemed not busy enough. “Anyway, since we still have, oh, two hours, let’s run through something. I’ve got parts for a march, so I’ll get those handed out and we’ll get to work. Hilbert, give us a tuning note.”

The band room wakes up with first the sound of Lovelace’s clarion French horn, then a strong base tone supporting that from Eiffel which Jacobi adds to, Maxwell melding with them, then an oboe piercing the fray, leading them to harmony, joined by timpanis thundering gently into pitch, then a soft violin. The instruments slowly work themselves into tune, and Kepler nods approvingly when the sound lifts.

“Not bad. Okay, hope you’ve read the music, we’re going from the top of the page, I’ll count one bar in 4/4 and one in 3/4. Hera, just use the snare drum for now.” He readies his baton, and tests a few different tempos before settling into a tempo and counting them in.

[Song of the Blacksmith](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZj8ztSSraQ)[2][3], due to its syncopation, was tougher than it had a right to be, and Eiffel was the most obviously out of beat. Hera, Lovelace, Minkowski, and Hilbert were treading water well enough, but from Maxwell’s cringing they could tell it wasn’t up to Kepler’s standards. He said as much by the end.

“I’m going to give y’all another chance to look it over,” he says crisply. “You should have a sense of how it’s supposed to sound now.” The sounds of practicing and pencils scratching at paper fill the room. Once it sounds like everyone more or less has their part under control, Kepler taps his baton against the stand imperiously. "Here we go."

The second run is noticeably better. They manage to sound vivacious, almost, and the final chord gains a sense of pride that Kepler seems to enjoy.

“Good. Good. Now, I want to go from... do you all have measure numbers or letters?"

“Letters," responds Minkowski.[4]

"Let's go... three measures after B.” They run through the piece several more times after that, and Kepler seems thoughtful, like he’s sizing them up.

“Well, seems like we’ve covered a fair bit of ground. I’ll get on transcription and you’ll get your parts by next week.”

“Next week?” Eiffel looks skeptical. “You sure?”

“Don’t doubt me, Eiffel.” Kepler cracks a lofty smile. “If I say I’ll have it by next week. I will. Just count yourselves lucky that you only have nine people.”

“Why didn’t Pryce and Cutter give us more people?” Lovelace asks, level.

Kepler shrugs coolly. “That’s not my call, Miss Lovelace.”

“Just Lovelace. Do you know or not?”

“Lovelace. I know, of course, but what’s the point in telling you?” The temperature seems to be dropping. Various sounds of protest. “Hey! I’m still talking. Listen. I don’t see the point in telling you what the point behind this arrangement is, but I’ll tell you because all three of us are confident that it _will_ work if I have any say in this. The point of this is not to make your orchestra experience nice and cushy so that you can hide behind other people. The _point_ is that this entire orchestra is a little exercise in minimalism. So no, this number is entirely intentional. I trust that all of you have the work ethic necessary to make this happen.” He fixes every member of the former ensemble with a steely stare. “You _will_ make this happen. I’m not taking any arguments.” His stare rests on Minkowski. “You knew what you signed up for.”

Minkowski bites her tongue, eyebrows furrowed.

Kepler waves his hands, breaking the tension of the atmosphere. “Alright, that’s enough of that. Rehearsal starts in earnest next Monday. You’re all dismissed.”

 

“That wasn’t so good, but it wasn’t... terrible,” Minkowski tells the air as they walk across the parking lot.

“Could have gone worse,” Eiffel agrees. His case wheels screech,[5] and he grimaces, yanking it up to a higher angle. “We’re tough cookies. We’ll get through this.”

“I don’t love his method, but I think he really will make the orchestra better,” Minkowski says, reflectively, looking troubled but overall more positive about their prospects than she had in a while, despite all her misgivings visible under the surface, and the crickets chirp hopefully as the group makes their way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, welcome to the footnotes section! because i want to talk about the research/experiences that went into this frantically written labor of love and and i insist on keeping my footnotes, bc who knows, you might find it amusing or informative. this is almost entirely informed by my experiences: 1.5 years in a youth orchestra, 7 years in concert band, 4 years in jazz band, 10 years of violin lessons. i've played all of these pieces except for 1812. so, here's some footnotes.  
> [1] - you heard that right, folks!! yso rehearsal indeed went 2.5 hours, on a monday, after school. it was far north in the city, too, so i had to go there immediately after school and usually got home by 9 pm.  
> [2] - If you want to hear the piece the way it’s meant to sound I’d suggest playing it at x1.25 speed, which is a bit too fast, but more accurate.  
> [3] - [IMSLP sheet music](http://imslp.org/wiki/Second_Suite_for_Military_Band,_Op.28_No.2_\(Holst,_Gustav\)). From here on, sheet music and recordings will be provided at the piece’s last performance. ;)  
> [4] - From here on, all rehearsal letters will be accurate to the original sheet music as per IMSLP resources.  
> [5] - after ten million years of dragging my tuba through slush and snow to practice, my case wheels got Fuckt Up(TM). you could only get rid of the screech by holding it nearly-vertical or nearly-horizontal and it was Such a pain  
> housekeeping notes: update schedule May be erratic, especially since it's grad season for me, i have a shitton of projects going on, an exam tomorrow (as of publication), i'm going to be in china for an entire month, i'm _moving_ and all that, etc, you know, the usual. i'm aiming to have one chapter a week, so we'll see how that goes. (i uploaded the first 2 bc i really dont know how else to deal with ao3's endnote system fucking up) tags will be updated as the chapters are uploaded.  
>  for those of yall wondering who the trans/autistic characters are: hera, maxwell, jacobi, and eiffel are autistic, hera, jacobi, minkowski, and lovelace are trans, maxwell is nb. ur local autistic trans nb author is having a Good Time


	2. Rehearsal - 29/08/16

“What’s with those clothes? You look like a douche,” Maxwell tells Jacobi playfully as they set up. He rubs the spiral of the tattoo climbing his neck and looks down at his douchey-ass summer clothes.

“You think? Then I’m doing my job.” He bends over to take his bass out, exposing a tapestry of roses along his left side, half-hidden by what looked like a sports bra. His bass rests on the tattoo curling around his arm, in what appears to be Arabic.[1] “It’s hot as balls outside, you know that? Or did all the sweat kill your temperature estimates?”

“I am a functional unit,” deadpans Maxwell, in skinny jeans and a woolly cardigan. “Who cares if I short out my temperature sensors?”

“We’ll see who’s laughing when winter comes!”

“I’m from Montana, Jacobi!”

 

The new repertoire is challenging, but Kepler takes it slow.

“Eiffel,” Kepler interjects casually before they take a look at Little Russian, “I took the liberty of transposing a few low notes just before M. Wasn’t sure if you’d make it so it never hurts to set it in stone.”

“Er- thanks.” Eiffel flips to the appropriate section, squints, and nods. “Yeah, that looks pretty doable.”

“Good to hear. Okay, shall we start from the beginning?”

The fourth movement proves challenging simply due to the time signature and the incohesion. Kepler looks progressively unhappier with them all, but certain parts were bound to draw his attention.

“Minkowski,” he drawls, cruelty in his voice. He knew this’d happen. “Try and keep up, will you?”

Minkowski grits her teeth. “I-”

“Really, I know this is the most challenging part in the symphony right now, but you’ve got to hammer away at it until you’re ready to contribute instead of detract.” He tsks. “D all the way to the presto is a particular area of interest, seems to me.”

Minkowski breathes through her nose, struggling to subsume her frustration at being singled out. “Yes sir.”

“And Hera.”

Hera looks terrified. “Yes?”

“I want you on timpani for the most part, but you should use your judgement on when you should be working the tam-tam and the bass drum. Just before the presto, I want a forte gong strike, so plan for that too.”

That does nothing to quell Hera’s fear. “Yes sir.”

“Let’s try the presto again. Hera, I want you to give it all you’ve got.”

Everyone watches, anticipating, and Hera picks up the biggest mallet she owns, approaching the gong. At her nod Kepler raises his baton and cues her.

_Crash!_

The orchestra picks up the presto as the gong fades out. Kepler is leading them slowly through the last page, although Minkowski seems to be frustrated with the slow going. The sixteenth tremolo is harder on her bow arm than on the other members’ lungs, and Jacobi is no source of emotional support because of his sedate single strokes for each note. Kepler seems more cheerful after they’ve made some progress on sorting the presto out, though.

“Okay. Let’s try the overture. We’ll save Autumn for next rehearsal.”

“Sir, can I bring in a cannon?” asks Jacobi immediately.

Kepler pauses, but his answer is exactly what his expression suggests. “No.”

“Please?”

“No, Jacobi.” The conversation is over, but Jacobi’s stormy face suggests that it really isn’t.

1812 is individually challenging for everyone.

“What in the devil is that key signature?” yelps Eiffel.

“E-flat minor, Eiffel.”[2] Hilbert scowls. “Keep up.”

“Well ex _cuse_ me.” He grimaces at the sheet music, utterly lost. “Can... can I get a moment to figure out what the hell is going on here?”

“Granted.” Kepler flips a page of the score. “That’s D to I, for anyone not keeping track. Hurry up.” A few people, Eiffel included, had to play a scale to figure out what the key sounded like and which notes were affected. Not that it helped much.

The familiarity of the piece helps them through it, but even with that it proves to be a total clusterfuck. Kepler runs a hand through his hair.

“Okay. Let’s call it for now and take a ten minute break.”

 

Jacobi and the way he stares at Kepler is... really obvious. Eiffel sits closest to him, so it’s really not that hard to catch the looks flavored with rapture and attraction. He thinks he might die of proximity to the intensity.

“What’s the deal with you and Kepler?” Eiffel asks him later, lurking in the percussion section at break. Hilbert scoffs nearby, turning away to attend to his own business.

Jacobi raises his eyebrows. “You’re an observant bastard, aren’t you?”

“Well- I just- you don’t need to tell me if-”

“No, chill, it’s cool.” Jacobi glances over his shoulder at Kepler, who is annotating his scores. “Me and Colonel Kepler go... way back, I guess you could say. I’ve been with him since university.” He sighs, a faraway longing look in his eyes. “Maxwell’s been with us for about as long as that too. We’ve done a lot of touring and concerts together, so I guess you can say we’re old hats at all of this thanks to him. I... don’t know where I’d be without him. Kepler just kind of inspires that kind of drive to be better at everything, you know? Maxwell likes the way he works, and what he expects from her. Keeps her sharp.” He cracks a grin. “As for me, well, by now I just want him to bend me over and give it to me the way I want.”

“... Alright, cool. Why do you call him Colonel, anyway?”

“Oh.” Jacobi shrugs, picking up a mallet and twirling it in his fingers absently. “It kinda stuck. He’s in the Air Force, you know.” He says this like it explains everything, and like he genuinely expected Eiffel to know.

“I didn’t know that.”

Jacobi looks surprised. “Really? You can tell he has the military walk.”

“Like he has a stick up his ass,” interjects Maxwell, walking by.

“Shut up, Alana.” He flips Maxwell the bird. She flips him off right back.

“I didn’t spend that much time in the Air Force myself, buddy,” Eiffel tells him dryly. “I don’t have elf eyes when it comes to picking out who’s serving and who isn’t.”

Jacobi shrugs. “I was a military brat. Dad was a recruiter. You learn to spot these things.”

“If you say so. So then what’s Hilbert’s deal with Darth Kepler?”

Jacobi snorts. “Bad blood, obviously.” He shrugs again. “I wasn’t around for this so it’s mostly hearsay, but Hilbert and Kepler were aiming for the same grant program that Pryce and Cutter were putting on, which was super competitive, and I guess they put Kepler in charge of Hilbert after they both got their grants? The Colonel was working on a sociology thing or something, and Hilbert was working with manipulating viruses to cure disease? It was like, fatal in its testing stages, and Pryce and Cutter didn’t really care about that, but he was taking too long and it was interfering with Kepler’s grant and the Colonel was getting really antsy about the whole project. So Pryce and Cutter stole his findings and got Kepler to ruin him when he kept promising more than he could give. I guess he would’ve gotten further if Pryce and Cutter got the chop on him.” He drags a flat hand across his neck. “So that’s gone.”

“You say their names like they’re one person.”

Jacobi looks thoughtful, the mallet stroking his face. “I guess. They’re kind of... timeless. In a ‘barely disguised eldritch horror in a meat suit’ way. Let’s hope you never find that out yourself.”

Eiffel decides it’s time to go, and leaves Jacobi sitting there, staring into space as he absently rubs the mallet on his lips. The silence that Eiffel gets to ruminate on Jacobi’s words doesn’t last very long.

“We’re restarting rehearsal in two minutes. Jacobi, get that mallet out of your mouth,” snaps Kepler without looking up from the score. “It’s not as erotic as you think it is. Frankly, it’s disgusting.”

Everyone turns to watch Jacobi, still lurking in the percussion area, with the mallet shoved impressively far back in his mouth. He gags a bit trying to get it back out, then glances at Hera, who stares back at him, repulsed. He waggles his eyebrows at her then leaves the room, presumably to wash it off.

Hera shudders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] - it's actually farsi, which i haven't learned beyond simple conjugation.  
> [2] - i dont know anything about music theory!!!! wikipedia wont tell me anything!! is it g flat major or e flat minor who knows its the same thing!! key signatures is the same!!


	3. Rehearsal - 05/09/16

“All I’m saying is, it wouldn’t  _ hurt _ to make me a temp percussion player,” Jacobi could be heard outside the rehearsal room. The door opens, and he steps inside, double bass in tow, Lovelace and Minkowski following with their miniscule-by-comparison cases. “I’ve looked at the score! I don’t even  _ have _ to play! Eiffel can take my part!”

“Uh huh,” Minkowski responds flatly. He storms off to his usual spot to apply resin to his bow with a vengeance. Then she stops short. “Excuse me, who are you?”

The woman in the middle of the room looks up from her case. “Oh! Hello, I’m Rachel Young. I’m the first violin.” She flashes them a sweet smile. “Nice to meet you.”

Minkowski, anyone can tell, is less than pleased. “... Same.”

“Hey, Minkowski, move it.” Lovelace hipchecks Minkowski affectionately, then peers over her shoulder. “Who’s this?”

“Oh! So you’re Isabel Lovelace?” Rachel smiles sweetly at her, walking up to meet them. “Hi, I’m Rachel Young, I’m  _ so _ pleased to meet you.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Lovelace responds, looking amused and gracious. 

“I believe we have some shared history?” Rachel leans in, the very picture of charming allure. “We’ve had so much in common, and it’d be a  _ pleasure _ to go over memories and things we’ve learned in our studies... together.”

“That’d be nice.” Lovelace smiles at her.

Minkowski shoots her girlfriend a sharp look. She inches between Rachel and Lovelace, and folds her arms. Rachel raises her eyebrows at Minkowski, but backs off, allowing them to get set up.

“Stop flirting with every woman you see, Rachel,” calls Jacobi teasingly.

Rachel sniffs smugly. “You’re just jealous Colonel Kepler won’t pay you any attention.” Jacobi flips her off good-naturedly. Minkowski looks like she wants nothing more than to shake Rachel.

“Welcome, Rachel, glad you could finally make it.” Kepler comes in through the back door hidden near the percussion section, the door closing heavily behind him with a thud. As always, there is an unmistakeable sharp edge to his words.

Rachel smiles, sickly sweet at him. “It’s my pleasure, Colonel.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?” Minkowski hisses at Lovelace.

Lovelace pulls her into a hug, grinning reassuringly. “I will if she tries to make another move. It’s going to be fine, Minkowski.” Minkowski nods, mollified but still tense around the eyes.

“Goddard University is holding a scholarship competition for musicians, so anyone here attending should give it a try. That’s all I wanted to say before we get started. We’ll work on the orchestra section of Autumn first,” announces Kepler as everyone has piled into the rehearsal room. “Rachel? You want to have... about an hour to practice by yourself?”

Rachel’s smile is glacial. “I don’t need it, but thank you.” She stands up, collecting her solo music. “Bye bye.”

“It’s not for you,” Kepler calls after Rachel, mildly annoyed.

Staying quiet enough to bring out the sound of Rachel’s violin is hard, even with such a small ensemble. Kepler had made cuts to the orchestra, so that Lovelace and Hera were exempt from the concerto, but he kept dismissing their efforts to play quieter. Hera had come to sit in the orchestra to listen.

“ _ More _ ,” he chides Eiffel, scowling over his raised hands. “You’re providing  _ background sound _ , not playing your breakout solo. There’s time for that in the other pieces.”

Rachel comes back after an hour and a half, and leans against a piano, amused, as she watches Kepler corral his orchestra into some semblance of shape. He gives up on the next attempt and sighs, beckoning her forward.

“Alright, we’ll go from the beginning. Maybe having Miss Young play will put things into perspective.”

It does give them a level of volume to match themselves against, which pleases Kepler. Rachel’s playing is sweet and clear and easily identifiable above the woodwork, her solos ringing confidently in the space. 

“When’d she get the time to practice?” Eiffel can be heard muttering as Kepler consults with her about her triplets.

“We’ve had two weeks, Eiffel,” Lovelace reminds him. “That’s enough time.”

“Rachel’s done the Four Seasons before, too,” Maxwell supplies lowly as Rachel runs through the third solo for Kepler. “This is just review for her.”

“Yeah, this rehearsal was mostly for your benefit,” Jacobi adds, idly practicing fingerings on his fingerboard. He sighs sarcastically. “Is there anything Wonder Woman here  _ can’t _ do?”

“Stop chitchatting,” Kepler rebukes. “We’ll be ready in a moment. Now, Rachel, at 44, I want the alternating between dynamics for these phrases to be more obvious. You have to  _ feel _ the music if you want to work it to its fullest potential...”

_ Boring _ , Jacobi mouths to the rest of the ensemble. Rachel’s playing is expressive enough, with a slow wide vibrato on long notes that hums in the air, but the rest of the orchestra has to find things to do to occupy themselves in the meantime, easier said than done in the space.

“That should do it for now,” Kepler finally says after an objective eternity. “Let’s start from the top again.”

It then becomes a struggle again to adjust the orchestra’s volume to Rachel’s new dynamic expression, but in the end, Kepler is satisfied with the end result enough to dismiss them early.

“Hera?” Maxwell asks, in the midst of the end-of-rehearsal rush to get home. “Do you want to meet up sometime this week? Just wanted to chat with you.”

Hera freezes in the middle of packing up, surprised, then nods. “Yeah, sure. When?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bumping up the update schedule bc i want to fit in one more chapter before i leave :x


	4. Arbor Harbor Coffee - 10/09/16

“And... I’ll get the cranberry lemon muffin. Do you want anything, Hera? My treat.”

Hera fidgets. Arbor Harbor Café is not loud on this sunny Saturday afternoon, but she struggles to be heard over the hum. It’s harder when she doesn’t have her customer service voice on. “A- a green tea to go, please,” she falters, “Looseleaf.” Maxwell repeats her order to the employee, one eyebrow raised but not saying anything, and when they’ve handed her her muffin Hera leads her over to the sidebar, where they can watch the bustle behind the counter.

“So, you work here?” Maxwell asks, curious.

Hera shakes her head. “I work at another location.”

Maxwell nods sagely. “I see. What’s your favorite part of working there? Money not included, of course.” She laughs lightly.

“Well... I really like the atmosphere.” Hera fidgets with her hands. “Bakeries are always comforting... They’re just warm and always smell like food and coffee and they’re usually bright.” Maxwell nods.

“Looseleaf green tea and small double coffee,” interjects the barista who sets the steaming cups in front of them. Hera offers a grateful smile, and Maxwell picks up a knife from the cutlery bins before guiding Hera over to a window seat with their drinks.

Hera watches Maxwell cut her muffin into quarters. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Maxwell pauses, setting down her knife in exchange for her coffee mug. She mulls it over until Hera can’t take it anymore. “Maxwell, _please_.”

Maxwell bites her lip and squares her shoulders. “Hera... I was wondering if you wanted to go out with me?”

“Wh- what? No. No.” Hera is taken aback, shrinking back against her chair. “I mean- you work for my mom. I can’t trust you if you’re always reporting back to her, so how can I trust you in a relationship?”

Maxwell blinks. “What? Oh, no, I work for _Kepler_. There’s a difference.”

“ _How_?”

“We... Daniel and I were part of Kepler’s undergrad jazz band,” Maxwell explains, cradling her mug. “Kinda... funky, if you will. And we followed him after we graduated, but then he went to work for Cutter and Dr. Pryce doing God knows what with that degree. We don’t work for Pryce. We work for him, but that just so happens to overlap with what he wants to do for them.”

“That’s not reassuring me.” Hera’s shoulders are rigid.

Maxwell sighs, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “It’s fine. Point is, your mom and I rarely interact, and even then we don’t talk. I don’t care about her. That’s Kepler’s job. I care about _you_ , Hera.”

“Still not convincing.”

“Then how can I convince you?”

“I don't know,” confesses Hera. “You're nice, but I don't know how I'm ever going to get over the fact that you could hurt me, or that I could be used to hurt you because my mom knows you.”

“That’s fine,” reiterates Maxwell, after a pause. “It’s fine, Hera. Don’t let me pressure you into anything you don’t want.” They both look out the window, watching pedestrians navigate the light drizzle past the succulents that border the windowsill.

“Does this mean I can’t trust Jacobi either?” Hera eventually asks the window, intently watching the raindrops track down her reflection.

Maxwell runs a hand through her hair, considering. “I don’t know. Daniel likes to do his own thing... and right now ‘his own thing’ is mostly wishing Kepler would notice him and bang him like a broken screen door already.” She heaves a long-suffering sigh, chuckling. “He’s very loyal to his friends. It depends if you want to be friends with him, really.” Hera laughs softly with her. “Well, let me know what you think whenever you decide. There’s no rush.” She sips her coffee. “I just want you to know I’m 100% here for you.”

Hera nods, but the paranoia lingers. “Thank you.”

 

Hera, cradling a long-cold Arbor Harbor takeout cup in her hand, lets herself into Minkowski’s apartment and sits gingerly on the couch, sighing as she contemplates her options.

"Renée?" Koudelka pops his head out of his bedroom. "Oh, hi, Hera.”

“Hi.” She watches him. He’s a solid man, a little anxious when out of his depth but knows when to get the job done. “Did you need her for something?”

“I... it’s nothing, just rent stuff.” Koudelka and Minkowski, despite having broken up a few years ago, still lived together, with Lovelace dropping by from time to time to visit her girlfriend. Koudelka didn’t mind in the least. In fact, he seemed to adore Lovelace. He smiles at Hera. “Anything I can do for you?”

Hera considers it, then shakes her head, smiling ruefully but grateful at him. “No, I think I’m fine. Thank you, though.”

“You sure? Well, alright. I’m here to talk if you need me, though.”

“Thanks.” She watches him retreat, and sips her tea. It feels nice to have that kind of support, even if she doesn’t think she’ll ever have the courage to accept it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry! its a short chapter! its not exactly orchestra stuff! im finally a real life graduate! im... dying a little!!!!  
> im not sure if anyone will have noticed, but that's the same arbor harbor as in welcome to the mso! i came up with the concept/logo way back in grade 9 so i figured i could use it again :v


	5. Rehearsal - 26/09/16

Hera approaches Maxwell at the beginning of rehearsal, two weeks later, and takes a deep breath.

“Maxwell? I’ve been thinking.”

“Yes?”

“I… was thinking maybe… it could work if we… went out together.” She twists her hands nervously. “I mean… I’m not the most perfect person… and my mother isn’t… going to like it but, when has she ever liked anything I do,” she laughs bitterly, “But… I think, like… maybe we can try, and…”

“Hera, can I hug you?” Maxwell asks.

“Wh- oh! Yes!” It’s really nice to be hugged, Hera thinks with a tinge of wistfulness. Maxwell is warm and comforting and smells nice and Hera’s worried that she won’t, and the thought of her mother’s frigid hands-off policy is… marring. She closes her eyes and tries to sink into the moment.

“We can work on it,” Maxwell murmurs softly into the space between Hera’s shoulder and her neck, on her tiptoes to span the height.[1] “We can work it out together.”

And in that moment, Hera agrees wholeheartedly. Everything is possible.

 

“Let’s go from the key change in 1812,” Kepler orders. “We have some fingerings to hash out.”

The fingerings are still a disaster. Even with Kepler’s insistent advice and his willingness to spend minutes at a time hammering out the individual fingerings with each instrument, the venture is more futile than Kepler is obviously used to having patience with.

“How can you not even grasp a simple E minor scale, let alone an E-flat minor scale?”

“I’ve never had to play in this key before!” protests Eiffel. “It’s too many flats to understand. And what’s with the sharps, too?”

“I- it’s the same key, Eiffel! It’s - alright.” Kepler sets down his baton with a _click_ and produces a flask from his jacket pocket. His voice is deadly slow. “I think y’all need to understand just how serious I am about this orchestra.”

Maxwell rolls her eyes.

“You see this?” He shakes it, and a liquid sloshes around. “You see it? That’s single malt Balvenie scotch in there.[2] Cost me $350.” He uncaps the flask. “That’s more than any of you will ever be able to shell out for a drink in your lives.”

Eiffel scowls. Kepler takes a sip, then sighs happily.

“Tastes like a dream. Well worth the purchase. Point is, I like to treat myself to a bit of this at the end of the day. Heaven knows I need it after dealing with all of you. It’s a little treat to myself. It’s the highlight to a shitty day.”

Then he holds the flask out at arm’s length and upends it onto the ground. Everyone who is not Jacobi, Maxwell, or Rachel is stunned, and raises some kind of clamor before the whiskey is fully gone.

“What the _hell?”_

“Didn’t that cost a _shitton?_ ”

“You can’t just pour that out!”

“ _The floor!_ ”

“ _Quiet,_ ” yells Kepler above the roar, “ _I’m not done talking._ ” He huffs as everyone shuts their mouth, shaking out the last of the droplets. “Better. As I was saying: you are all like my whiskey. I want to get the best experience out of this orchestra as I possibly can. I know you all have potential somewhere in there and I want to find it. But if I decide you’re a lost cause? If I decide you’re not worth the effort I put in, day in, day out?” He snaps his fingers. “Gone. Just like that. I’d be disappointed. Sure I would. But at the end of the day, I am here to make do with what I have. If I can keep a full orchestra and put on a spectacular show, that’s great. If I have to cut some of you? Fine.” He puts the flask back in his jacket. “Whatever happens, happens.” He sits back on his conductor’s chair. “Any questions? No? Let’s get back to work. We _are_ going to figure this key out even if we go overtime.”

 

“Maybe that was overkill,” Eiffel hears Jacobi snort to Kepler at break. Jacobi is leaning in entirely too closely, progressively gaining more ground on the seat Kepler occupies.

“You think? It should have gotten the job done, which is what I want.” Jacobi looks positively rapturous as Kepler cups his jaw in his hand. Eiffel feels, again, that if he were unlucky enough to get in the middle of this moment, or stepped into the path of Jacobi’s longing stare, he’d be burnt by the intensity. He’s curious, though, so it doesn’t stop him from listening in.

“Yeah, and I’m saying maybe it was overkill. You could’ve just told them we’re being serious about this whole thing.”

“You enjoyed it, though.” Not a question. Kepler leans back in his chair, smug as sin. “I could see you following along.”

“Oh yeah, I did.” A fond smirk. “You love that speech way too much.”

“It lets me be dramatic. You know I like the flair.”

“If by ‘flair’ you mean dropping, oh,” Jacobi appears to be considering something, “I’d say, like, 89 dollars[3] every time you pull that stunt, then yeah, I know.” He doesn’t sound angry, but more calmly amused. “It’s better to just drink it, though.”

Kepler pushes Jacobi gently out of his personal space. “Are you offering to suck it out of the carpet?”

Jacobi flushes all the way to the tips of his ears. He squares his shoulders. “No. I’m not that desperate. I haven’t been in years, you know that.”

Kepler nods. “Good to hear.”

Eiffel turns away from the conversation. He’s done here. He doesn’t need to be reminded.

He needs to do something, anything, to get it off his mind again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [jazz hands] ooh timeskip (i will probably never do that again. the timeskip i mean. theres lots of jazz hands in our future)  
> but helo im.... home-ish i guess, got a few days before i leave again :v  
> [1] hc heights: maxwell is 5′4 and hera is 6′0.  
> [2] if anyone cares what kepler’s drinking, it’s tun 1509. i hate rich people  
> [3] jacobi is good at math. i am not. this is an estimate based on the assumption that kepler poured out a full 6 fl oz flask. somebody please confirm


	6. Rehearsal - 03/10/16

“Goddard University’s scholarship competition has officially concluded, so kudos and best of luck to everyone who entered.” Kepler, shuffling his papers, doesn’t sound like he truly means it. “Hera, why didn’t you audition for the scholarship?”

“The- the competition people said to bring your own instrument,” Hera stammers, gesturing helplessly at the timpanis.[1]

“Hm.” He nods, uninterested. “Well, that’s rough. Better luck next year.” He seems distant. Preoccupied. He shakes his head. “Well, let’s get started. Symphony.” When everyone is ready, he raises his hands. “Remember, we want the opening to be _majestic._ ”

And, well, they give it their best try. For four bars, they truly do sound like a joyous full orchestra, thunderous in the room.

“More roll, Hera,” shouts Kepler over the last chord. “Put your whole self into it!” The timpani thunders with something slowly approaching pride until Kepler cuts her off, allowing the momentum to hover in the air to die slowly into the furtive phrasing of the next section before A.

The music is intended to crescendo imperceptibly, but instead does so in fits and swells, which Kepler is not pleased about, but he saves the criticism for when he’s decided to stop.

“Minkowski, Young, you’ve got to work out those downbows at C,” he sighs. “Young, I know the octave transposition is weird. Do it anyway. We’re trying that again, but slower.” And so they do. Minkowski does her best to keep up with Rachel, who is steadily becoming the target of her resentment. After a few more practice runs, Kepler beckons the rest of the orchestra to join them and they forge on from there.

He scraps it just a rehearsal letter after, though, sighing heavily. “This has to be _heavier_. You have to put more weight into the individual notes, all of you have to play like you mean it.” He points at the woodwind section. “Both of you, I can barely hear you, which is a disgrace even for woodwinds. We also need much more low instruments. Let’s go from D. D as in Daniel, Doug, play louder.“ Jacobi scowls at him, lifting his bow anyway. Eiffel mutters something under his breath but readies himself at his mouthpiece.

Kepler decides to go further without interruptions. E is a struggle to stay smooth and quiet but he does not relent. It is getting easier to follow the swells and drains of the symphony as they go now, but there is still a long way to go.

“The presto has to be tenser,” growls Kepler, tapping the stand imperiously. “The fortissimo is at Q, not immediately at the presto. Start off tense, then explode with joy. We’re doing that again.”

The very ending is also a spot of concern for him, being deemed “not majestic enough”. They run over the ending eight measures several times before he is satisfied, and steps away from the stand so that he can ruminate over what to do next.

“That should do it,” he muses eventually. He frowns, then shakes it off. “We’ll come back to this. For now, 1812.”

Kepler takes the overture slower today, which is both a blessing and a cause for concern. The ensemble shares puzzled glances, trying to figure out the reason for his distracted mood. One might even say he was anxious, but that was impossible. They’d only known Kepler for a month, but they’d yet to see him have an emotion that wasn’t satisfaction or anger. It wasn’t entirely clear to them if he _had_ the ability to experience more than those two emotions.

“Okay. Hera. At C.” Kepler raps his baton against the stand to get their attention. “All of that section should be quieter. Eiffel, you should _know_ what the notes are by now. Write them down if you have to. Lovelace. Your tremolos before B are lagging. Practice that at home. And E. Your entry timing is perfect as usual, Mr. Jacobi,” he stresses wearily, “But you have to play them evenly.”

“Yessir,” Jacobi sighs, stony.

“Young, Maxwell, you’re doing good. Minkowski, Hilbert, keep up. Let’s do that again.”

 

“Jacobi, how do you know when to come in?” Minkowski asks him at break, extending her part for 1812 for the both of them to look over. “At E.”

He blinks, not bothering to take her part. “It just makes sense.”[2]

She hadn’t expected that answer. “Wh- how?”

He looks at her like it should have been universally obvious. “It just makes musical sense. Like, you have to make all these notes fit into this certain timespan because they’re only so fast, and your last note has to land on the first beat here, right? It just makes sense.” He shrugs. “What, were you expecting real advice? Rachel would just tell you to count a lot.”

“Well, I’m not going to Rachel,” Minkowski sighs, “So thanks.”

He shrugs. “Your choice.”

 

Rehearsal for Autumn is not as much of a priority, so Kepler leaves that for last, criticisms relaxed for the half-hour. As rehearsal winds down, he seems progressively more unsure of something, something that he never fully articulates but can be found palpable in the air.

“Well… I think that’s good for today.” He seems lost for a moment, shifting his weight as he decides something. “Young. You say it’s next week?”

“Yes, sir,” Rachel responds flatly, perfect posture as always. “They’ve scheduled to sit in for exactly half of our time.”

Kepler sighs and shakes his head. “… Can’t be helped, then.” He stands up straight. “Dismissed, everyone. Dress appropriately next week.” He ignores every question the ensemble throws at him, and Rachel, Maxwell, and Jacobi refuse to say anything on the matter. The only indication of what is to come is the grim set of their mouths.

They can only wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> throwin this here before i get on the plane  
> [1] this happened verbatim to our symphony orchestra percussion player. rip in rip josh we will never forget u  
> [2] this...... is absolutely me calling my own ass out. im guilty of not practicing anything during my year in symphony orchestra bc, you guessed it, my autistic ass processed my part vs the rest of the orchestra like this  
> im not subtle at all. you can probably guess whats going to happen next


	7. Rehearsal - 10/10/16

“No monkey business today _at all,_ ” is Kepler’s opening sentence once everyone is more or less set up, steel-tense voice giving everyone pause. No one notices Hera, pointedly not listening, eyes blown wide as she looks around, slightly panicked. “I mean it, especially you, Jacobi and Eiffel.”

“Why?” asks Jacobi, and Eiffel asks, “Hey, what have _I_ done?” just as the door opens.

“That’s why,” Kepler mutters grimly, and relaxes into a more welcoming stance. “Dr. Pryce! Mr. Cutter! Welcome to rehearsal.”

Cutter is tall, commands attention with his smile, and gives off the impression that if he were to touch you, you would scald. He seems to absorb all light and heat in his vicinity, or at the very least eclipse it. Pryce is short, plain, and terrifyingly freezing. Even her delicate jewelry, though sparse, reflects light harshly.

“Warren!” Cutter sounds jovial. Eiffel’s eyes bug out and he mouths _Warren?!_ at Maxwell, the closest person not in their line of vision. She grimaces. _Shut up._ “So good of you to invite us.”

“We’re not going to sit in on the whole rehearsal,” Pryce interrupts, voice mild, but it roots everyone to their chairs. Kepler forces a smile.

“Of course. We won’t waste your time.” He addresses the orchestra as Pryce and Cutter pull up chairs behind the percussion section. “Let’s start with movement four.”

“My favorite,” Cutter can be heard whispering to Pryce enthusiastically. She tsks disparagingly at him.

Kepler’s movements are terser than usual. His response time to mistakes is shorter, and his feedback is curter, and the time that they are allowed to ruminate on how to improve is much, much shorter. The speed at which he runs them through their paces is challenging, but it starts to feel like a real improvement is being made over observable amounts of time.

Pryce gives Cutter a look, which he returns.

“Alright,” says Kepler, after an eternity, knuckles white on the stand edges. “That should cover it. We’ll return to it after the break.”

“Interesting, Warren,” Cutter murmurs, a delicately poised smirk threatening to slip and skewer Kepler. For a brief eternity, Kepler locks eyes with Cutter as they communicate nonverbally. He almost... he looks... scared. It is a shock to realize that Warren Kepler, with wider eyes than usual and a tense bob of his Adam’s apple, is displaying fear in front of his orchestra for the first time.

“1812 Overture,” Kepler says finally. The moment is broken, and Cutter sits back in his chair, nudging Pryce with his elbow. “Let’s go three from D.”

Kepler does not meet Cutter’s eyes as he leads them through the key change, conducting just as tense as before. However, he’s reverted back to cataloging their mistakes and calling them out as a laundry list of sins.

“Young,” Kepler begins after stopping them just before P, “At E, I want your slurs to be smoother.”

Rachel glares at him, sparing a quick glance at Cutter. She opens her mouth to protest, but Kepler has moved on.

“Hera,” he sighs, “I need you to roll quieter all around on the timpani before N.”

“You can barely hear me over everyone else,” Hera protests, half-rising out of her chair. “I can barely hear myself!”

“Well, then, pretend you’re playing.”

“It’s going to be harder to-”

“Helios,” snaps Dr. Pryce, the first thing she has said since rehearsal began. Hera snaps her mouth shut and wilts in her chair. Pryce says nothing more.

Hera bites her lip. “... Yes, sir.”

“Alright, let’s try. From L.”

Pryce and Cutter exchange a few more looks, complete with eyebrow gestures and head tilts.

“That’ll be enough,” Cutter says mildly, after Kepler’s stopped for the second time, and everyone turns to watch them stand up and gather themselves. “Warren, we’ll discuss later in detail how you’re doing. I’m looking forward to that meeting _very_ much.” The way he licks his lips is not lost on the orchestra. “Thursday at 11 AM?”

“Yessir.” Kepler does not dare to move, eyes tracking their path. Jacobi can be seen staring wide-eyed between Cutter and Kepler, despite himself, and licks his lips subconsciously.

“Helios, we’ll talk at home,” Pryce says coldly, twisting a fine bracelet on her wrist.

“Yes ma’am,” whispers Hera, only daring to look up once they are gone.

The rest of rehearsal after Pryce and Cutter leave is tense. No one says a word more than they need to.

 

“You okay, kiddo?” Eiffel makes sure to walk in stride with Hera, which requires a bit more walking than usual because of her height.[1]

“I’m fine.” She doesn’t look fine, clutching her mallet bag to her chest. She glares into the ground, as if her stare would open up the parking lot asphalt and swallow her whole.

“Hera,” begins Lovelace.

_“I’m fine.”_

“Just because your mother is-”

“Lovelace, _please,_ I said I’m fine and I don’t want to talk about it,” Hera shouts, grinding to a halt.

Eiffel looks like his mind is scrambling to catch up. “Wait- I- your _mom?_ ”

Hera sighs bitterly. “Hera Pryce, Eiffel.”

“… Oh. Hera- I’m sorry-” They watch as she walks off to the bus stop, kept in place by their inability to offer anything substantial to her.

“We’re here for you,” Minkowski calls lamely after her, but all of them feel so truly powerless to help her.

They can only hope.

 

_Arbor Harbor - 20/10/16_

“She’s getting worse.” Hera closes her eyes and sinks into the chair in the Arbor Harbor break room. Her phone is warm against her skin. “Last night she kept talking about how _disappointing_ I was being and how I’ll never be any _thing,_ and I just shut down-”

“Hera? Can you get the muffins in like one minute?” Vivian grimaces apologetically at her. “Someone asked for soy milk and we just ran out, I’m running down to the store and Sarah’s manning the register.”

“Y-yeah, I’ll be right there.” Vivian runs off, and Hera sighs heavily. “Maxwell, I can’t… I can’t do this. I can’t stand up to her.”

“Hera,” Maxwell sighs over the phone, full of empathetic pain. “I know it’s terrifying.” Maxwell’s told her about her family. Hera knows she means it. “But the important thing is that you have people around you who _will_ support you, okay? We’re here for you to help with anything you need. I’m here for anything you need. Reaching out is scary, and you might need to have a backup plan, but believe me, I know that you are strong and beautiful and brave and you _will_ get out of this as a woman who can survive anything the world throws at her. You deserve respect, Hera. You deserve love.” Maxwell takes a deep breath, then exhales. “And I’m willing to fight as long and hard for you as I am humanly capable of.”

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Hera jokes weakly. Maxwell chuckles. “I… I have to go. The muffins will be ready soon.”

“Okay. Go comply with capitalism so you can support yourself.” Some papers shuffle in the background. “Love you.”

“Love you,” Hera whispers, and every time she says it she feels more confident that she has any love she’s allowed to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello ao3 was banned on mainland china for a While but now that its here again and im still in henan idk whats up but im not questioning it >____>  
> [1] - hc heights: hera, 6′0. eiffel, 5′2. he’s my height bc i, a short asian guy, projected like hell during the first few episodes of wolf and now its stuck


	8. Rehearsal - 24/10/16

October refuses to die down quietly, and the thunderstorm that howls through the city leaves everyone plastered as they pile into the basement for rehearsal.

“It’s a real flood out there,” grumbles Lovelace as she shakes the rain off her French horn case.

Eiffel yelps. “Hey, watch it!”

Jacobi, on the other side of Eiffel, teasingly shakes his entire body out like a dog, shirt drenched and drenching Eiffel and Maxwell. “Can’t deal with the wet, Eiffel?” he laughs. “Didn’t expect that from you, considering how much spit goes into your tuba.”

“That’s different,” Eiffel grouses, struggling with his rubber mouthpiece case.

“Sure it is,” agrees Jacobi affably. Eiffel blinks, as if he was expecting a fight.

Kepler, immaculate and only mildly damp, watches them set up. “It’s a real disaster out there, eh, Young?”

“Ugh,” spits Rachel, combing wet blonde hair out of her face with her fingers. “If you talk to me again within the next ten minutes, sir, with all due respect I _will_ rip your throat out through your mouth.”

When everyone has more or less settled in a miserably sodden state of readiness, he clears his throat. “How’s everyone doing after last week?”

“Bad,” mutters Hera, backed up by the ensemble.

He swipes a thumb across his cheek, mouth twisted in a grim pout. “I understand. Pryce and Cutter can be... overwhelming. They’re downright terrifying to talk to if you don’t know them well.”

“You must be new, then, because you looked like you were going to piss yourself,” Lovelace deadpans.

Kepler turns very deliberately to her. “Miss Lovelace, would it kill you to shut up right now?” he asks, chilling. Lovelace grins smarmily. “Complaint hour is over. Let’s get to work.” They make good progress, getting into rehearsal letter E of the symphony without criticism.

Suddenly, the lights flicker and die.

“Aw, what!”

“Stay put,” Kepler orders them. “I’ll see if I can fix it. Miss Young? You have the steadiest hands. Come with me.”

“What? There’s no way you can-”

“I’d really rather not, sir.”

“I can and will, Minkowski.” A penlight snaps on, piercing the dark. Kepler gives their general area a glare. “Young?”

Rachel scoffs, setting her violin down carefully. “Fine.”

“Jacobi, Maxwell, you’re in charge. We’ll be back.” And with that, Kepler and Rachel stalk out through the back door.

“He’s _felt_ my hands,” mutters Jacobi sourly in the echo of the door. “Why didn’t he take me?”

“Because you’ll jump him any chance you get, obviously,” Maxwell ribs him.

“I-” He huffs. “Just because that’s _true_ \- I- You know what, shut up, Alana.” There are the sounds of him fumbling for something in his pocket. His face, now underlit by his phone flashlight, appears ghostly. “Well, there’s only one thing to do now,” he announces, way more gleeful.

“Sharing deep, dark secrets?” Eiffel asks dryly.

“Sharing deep, dark secrets,” Jacobi echoes with relish. “Who’s first?” He shines the light on each of them in turn, blinding them inadvertently. “Maxwell? Doug? Oh, Doctor, that’s right, you haven’t said jack shit since we started rehearsal. Anything to share?”

“No.” Hilbert glares sourly at him.

“You sure? Well, a guy like you has to have _something nasty in the works_. How about that research you’re carrying on? Hmm? What was it called? Dead Things? Dark Horse? Dork Science?”

“It’s called Decima,” snaps Hilbert. His brain catches up with his mouth and he physically stumbles back. Jacobi smirks.

“Wow, Decima. Edgy. And what... exactly are you doing with that? Is it plants? Bacteria?” He gasps dramatically. “ _Humans, even?_ ”

“So you’re the one running Decima? If it’s anything like your stupid vine plant, which, by the way, is going to eat me alive,” interjects Eiffel, “I want to know what I’m gonna be dying from when you stick me.”

“The Blessed Eternal is not lethal predator,” retorts Hilbert loudly, struggling to regain control of himself. “Is merely advanced vegetative sentience taking every opportunity to survive.” He rubs a red shiny mark on his wrist. “Decima is no such experiment. What I am doing will change science and medicine forever. Does not matter who lives or dies.”

“Uh huh,” drawls Jacobi insincerely, decidedly Kepler-esque as he picks at his nails. “Wow, lofty ambitions.”

“What’s that on your wrist, Doctor?” Maxwell asks quietly in the silence.

He shrugs bitterly. “Kepler does not like that we are working together.” He shows off the ugly burn matter-of-factly. “He is... a vindictive man.”

“Damn right,” Jacobi murmurs lowly. Lovelace raises her eyebrows, expression inscrutable in the shadows. Hilbert looks off into the dark and refuses to say anything more.

Jacobi sighs and trains the light on each of them in turn. “Okay, who else has something to share with the class? Lovelace? Minkowski? Any juicy secrets to share?”

“Why would we just tell you our secrets?” Minkowski squints through the light, arms folded.

“Hey, this is a non-judgemental space. We’re gonna bond!”

“Yeah, Daniel,” chimes in Maxwell, eyes twinkling devilishly, “You’re looking for the embarrassing stuff, right?”

“Yeah! Exactly.”

“Like... how you’re scared of ducks?”

“Y- what? No! Maxwell I trusted you!”

“You’re scared... of ducks?” Hera asks slowly.

“No!” Jacobi snaps, voice cracking. He coughs, gathering himself tightly. “No, I am not,” he grits slowly.

Everyone bursts into laughter.

“Stop that! It’s not that funny!”

“You’re right,” Lovelace calls through her tears, guffawing. “It’s not funny. It’s _hilarious_.”

“No it’s not, shut up!” He throws his hands in the air. “At least I’m not Kepler, who thinks it’s cool and no big deal to drop eight grand on a skiing trip!”

 _“Eight thousand dollars?”_ shrieks Maxwell.

“Eight fucking thousand dollars!”

“Oh my God,” she mutters, as the ensemble erupts into chatter. “Eight thousand dollars to go _skiing._ Y- y’know what? I feel like I’m losing sight of what really matters when I think about it.”

They trail into silence, with Maxwell shaking her head in awed horror and whispering _“Eight thousand”_ to herself every few minutes.

“So,” Lovelace starts after a few minutes of silence. The rain hasn’t let up outside. “Are we done sharing secrets? It’s been juicy and all, but are we done?”

“I’m trans, but I don’t think that’s a secret anymore,” says Hera dryly.

“Oh, yeah, I’m trans too,” shrugs Jacobi. “So... you gonna tell her?” He doesn’t need to specify who he’s talking about.

“I did.” Hera’s fingers dig into her arm. “Never again.”

“That’s why I’m helping Hera develop a safety net in case she breaks away from Pryce,” Maxwell jumps in. “But the first step is determining how supportive Pryce is willing to be.”

“She won’t,” mutters Hera, clutching herself. “I just know she’s never going to listen to me.” Jacobi nods sympathetically, a hard look on his face.

“But we have to try.” Maxwell places a hand on Hera’s arm.

“Maxwell,” pleads Hera, leaning into her girlfriend’s touch. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes you can,” Maxwell tells her, resolute.

“If I promise to try, then you have to tell them about your family,” Hera hisses, eyes darting to the collected members. They look curious.

“What’s there to tell, though?” Maxwell shakes her head. “As far as I’m concerned they don’t exist past the restraining order.”

 _“What?”_ shout Lovelace and Minkowski together. Jacobi trains the light on Maxwell.

“What do you mean you have a restraining order on your family?” he yells, uncomprehending.

She looks more than annoyed now. “I... don’t like them,” she snaps tightly. “What? It’s not like you wouldn’t dump your own parents. Let’s move on.”

He does not move on.

“Daniel,” she growls softly. “I’ll tell you later.”

He gives her a long hard look. Then he slides the light off of her and Hera. “Fine. Anyone else got anything to share with the class?”

“What about how you carry explosives everywhere with you?” Hera mutters sullenly.

Jacobi stiffens. “It’s my _job._ I’m a demolitions consultant.”

“What, and do you blow up hospitals just for the kicks?” Lovelace snarks.

He whips around. _“Maxwell!”_

“I didn’t tell them anything about you!” Maxwell snaps right back. “But it’s true. You should be keeping them at home.”

“What do you _want_ me to do, go back to drinking myself to death as a hobby?”

“Daniel, of course I don’t. I’m just _saying,_ you can find safer hobbies that won’t get you _arrested_ for walking in public.”

“Hell of a hobby,” deadpans Eiffel, sighing.

“You think you can do better, Eiffel?” Jacobi looks ready to get in Eiffel’s face. “Haven’t you been there?”

“Yeah, I have.” Eiffel refuses to answer the aggression. “But if it hurts other people, then I’m not gonna do it.”

“What about your jail sentence?” snaps Jacobi loudly.

The room falls deathly silent.

“What?” Minkowski asks slowly, looking at Eiffel like she’s scared that if he opens his mouth the floor will fall out from under her feet. She looks unsteady on her feet.

“How do you know?” hisses Eiffel, looking perilously ill himself. “Jacobi - You shouldn’t know that.” He takes an unsteady step forward, unsure of what to do next. “You - Kepler told you, didn’t he. I- I can’t tell them.”

“No, tell them,” sneers Jacobi. “This is a space for secrets now, Eiffel. Or are you going to run away from what you’ve done for the rest of your life like a coward?”

Eiffel shuffles his feet, and sighs. “Fine.” His voice is flat. His back is rigid. He does not look anyone in the eye. “No point in beating around the bush.” He takes a deep breath.

“So there’s this guy. Let’s call him Doug. Doug... likes to have a few drinks every day. No, not just a few drinks. Doug could drink a few cases if anyone let him. And usually, this girl named Kate Garcia was the one holding him back.

“Doug didn’t mind so much, because every once in a while Kate gave him the same kinda fuzzies he could only find on the brink of passing out in the middle of the road somewhere. But it wasn’t enough, and he kept going back to the siren call of a long hard drink after a day of doing jack shit, because somehow he had to cope with being a fundamentally shit person day-in day-out. Shit got screwy between Doug and Kate, because Kate had brains and could tell Doug wasn’t a shining pinnacle of human decency. He got pretty nasty all around on a regular basis.”

“And then suddenly, somehow, Doug and Kate had a little girl. And she was perfect. And Doug realized that he had to clean up his act, because there was no way Anne was going to have such a piece of shit for a dad. And he fucking tried, he did. For a while he was clean as a whistle.

“And then Dougie-boy fucked up real bad.”

‘Horrified’ is too tame a word to describe how Minkowski looks at him. It suits Hera and Lovelace, but Jacobi, Maxwell, and Hilbert tend to the interested side of the spectrum. This doesn’t bode well, but he has to keep going at this point.

“I... got this idea in my head while I was shitfaced that I was gonna take Anne on a trip. And _then_ I thought it was a _great_ idea to sneak her out of the house, put her in her car seat, and get onto the freeway before Kate noticed a thing.” God, when had he started talking in first person? “I thought I was sober enough.” His fault. “I didn’t think there were gonna be other people on the freeway at 1 in the morning.” A quiet broken laugh. “I was wrong.” His goddamn fault.

Minkowski breathes shakily somewhere behind him.

“Some kids, high schoolers, going the other way. I couldn’t swerve in time, and-” He passes a shaky hand over his face. A deep exhale. “The driver’s always fine. I don’t really get it. The driver always gets to walk away.”

“Eiffel,” murmurs Lovelace.

“They got hurt pretty badly. They survived, though, and... Anne. She got hurt bad. Cranial trauma bad. ‘Deaf for the rest of her life’ bad.” He buries his face in his hands, then surfaces again. The air is colder than the ambient chill can explain. “They gave me life. It’s what I deserve.” He sighs slowly. “It was the least I could do.”

“When _was_ this?” Minkowski demands. “Was? I- Eiffel-” She’s slowly coming back to life now, scrambling to make sense of her upended world.

“Three years ago. She was two. Cutter got me out-” The lights flicker on and Eiffel’s mouth snaps shut. Minutes later, the sound of Kepler and Rachel returning through the back door break the silence.

“You can’t have been standing silently like this all rehearsal,” quips Kepler dryly, surveying the orchestra with his arms akimbo.

“I- no.” Minkowski rubs a hand across her face, shellshocked. Kepler raises his eyebrows.

“Well, if no one has any objections, I think we should call it a day. Rehearsal’s practically over.”

“Yeah.” The orchestra members disperse as if in a dream, and Eiffel doesn’t dare look anyone in the eye.

“I think I need a break,” Hera can be heard saying to Maxwell, softly. “I just... want to be alone right now.”

“Stay safe,” is all Maxwell says in response.

Eiffel doesn’t see Minkowski all week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you find yourself in henan and ao3 isnt working it was probably me im sorry i know this is late. at least the great firewall hasnt caught wuhan Yet  
> im not too proud of this chapter bc i couldve done better working out need to know and its ramifications but i hope you liked it!!


	9. Rehearsal - 31/10/16

“Alright,” Kepler starts briskly, addressing the orchestra as they finish warming up. “Since the concert is in a month, I want to make sure y’all have your suitcases ready for a trip that’s... oh, say, four or five days.“

“Wait, what?” Eiffel sets his tuba on the floor. His fake antennae bob above his head. He was the only one who had come in a costume for Halloween, although he’d brought a multitude of DIY costumes in a large shopping bag in case anyone changed their mind. Lovelace was the only one who had accepted, now sporting an equally bouncy pair of antennae. “Suitcases?”

“Yes, Eiffel, suitcases. The concert’s in Bayer.[1]” Kepler pauses. “What, did no one tell you?”

“No?!”

“ _When_ were you planning to drop that one on us?” demands Minkowski. She hasn’t made eye contact with Eiffel so far, let alone talked to him.

“Why, I assumed Mr. Cutter would have told you.” Kepler shrugs. “Well, no matter. Have your suitcases ready to go December 1st. Five day trip. Concert attire is black semi-formal with a splash of color. If you forget your instruments, music, or other miscellaneous accessories you need to keep your instruments in shape, I _will_ flay you alive and feed you to my dogs.[2]” His tone is still light. “Anyway, let’s get started. Autumn.”

It has to be more _dramatic_ , Kepler insists, so he makes them run through the forte-piano contrasts until he’s satisfied with them. He’s also taken offense to their tuning, which apparently requires a runthrough of each and every chord he can find in the score. Finally pleased again with their progress, he leads them through a run from the top.

“Brighter, brighter,” Kepler tells them. “This is a lively piece and we’re going to play it like it is. Let’s try going the whole way through.”

Rachel’s flair tends towards the more brilliant side, the walls slightly muting her dazzling sound but nevertheless ringing true enough to impress the ensemble members. Her solos range from sweet to plaintive to spirited to contemplative, swooping into capricious, coming to rest gently on the passage of the sleeping shepherd.

“No,” Kepler decides suddenly. “No, hold it.” They reel off to a stop. “Young, that has to be louder too. And more expressive. I don’t care how much vibrato you put into that, you have to make it _feel_ like something.”

 _He likes the feel of it in his hand,_ Jacobi mouths. Maxwell snickers.

“Maxwell, shut up.” Kepler sighs. “From the top.”

 

“Still not talking to you?” Lovelace murmurs. Her antennae jiggle above them. Eiffel straightens up from where he was rummaging in his backpack, and stands up, sighing.

“Nope.” He rubs the bridge of his nose wearily. “Look, she can decide never to talk to me again. Cool. Cool cool cool cool cool.[3] That’s chill! But... Alright, there is no ‘but’. I just wish...”

Lovelace claps him on the shoulder. “She’ll work herself up to it.”

“God, I hope that’s true,” he mutters, going back to searching in his backpack for his valve oil. “It’s been a week. That’s the longest any of you have stopped talking to me, _ever_. Last time it was the laughing gas incident.”

“Trust me.” Lovelace gazes across the room, where Minkowski is deep in furious exposition to Hilbert, who looks progressively more sour as she continues. “She’s working on it.”

“... If you say so.”

“And Eiffel?” He looks up again, clutching his valve oil. “It’s fine. It’s gonna be fine.”

He smiles, crookedly. “Thanks. Hope so too.”

 

True to Lovelace’s prediction, Minkowski corners Eiffel after rehearsal, agitated, as if she barely knows what she’s about to say herself. Her violin case sways in her grasp. “Eiffel - I - about last rehearsal.”

He straightens up, watching her face. Not impassively, but not emotional. Resolute. Accepting whatever she’ll say.

“I...” She gestures, trying to formulate exactly what she’s going to say. “I... about Anne?”

“What?” They both wince at how unnecessarily sharp he sounds.

“Look, I...” She huffs, dragging a hand through her bangs. “I’m trying to say that it’ll be okay.”

He blinks. His antennae bob gently.

“You’re... you’re trying. And you’re still the same Eiffel I know and work with. And... well, I trust you. And I trust you to be doing your best.” She takes a breath. “I... was talking to Hilbert and it made me realize... no one’s perfect. And sometimes our mistakes are worse than other peoples. I- God, I don’t know where I’m going with this one.”

He absorbs the words silently, and sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks, Minkowski. I... thanks. I’m trying to do better.”

“I know you are.” They share a long hug, and Minkowski is the one to break it. “So... you mentioned Cutter.” Her arms are lightly tense on his shoulders, but she seems more curious than anxious. “What’s your connection to him?”

“He bailed me out.” Eiffel can’t think of how to explain it in a way that doesn’t sound weird, at least to him, but Minkowski deserves the truth. “He said something about experimenting. Because you know Hilbert’s project? Apparently it’s ready for human trials.” He laughs, and it sounds flat. “Guess Cutter didn’t want to waste decent, innocent people on this thing.”

Minkowski processes this, mouth twisted as she takes it in. “Eiffel. This isn’t... how do you know you’re not going to die?”

He doesn’t look at her.

  
“ _Eiffel._ ”

“Minkowski? Eiffel?” Kepler flickers the lights. “This is all very heartwarming, whatever’s happening here, but y’all gotta clear out.”

“Y-yes sir,” Minkowski responds, startled, and gives Eiffel one last look. “We’re going to be talking about this later, okay?”

He rolls his eyes, not quite joking but still good-natured. “Sure, mom.”

“Promise me you’ll be okay.”

“I... I’ll try.” That’s as good as he can give her. He’ll settle for that.

It has to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] - Bayer is the name of the family that the Dorado constellation, home of Gliese 163, assumed source of the alien transmissions, is located in.  
> [2] - a german shepherd, 5, and a chocolate lab, 2. both incredibly loyal and would never sell out for head pats  
> [3] - that is absolutely meant to be read in a jake peralta voice  
> i decided the reason minkowski gets over it faster is bc everyone was there so she doesnt feel the need to keep it secret but discussing it with lovelace helps her a lot. but also the plot needs to move and i am too stupid to keep this going much longer  
> also [gestures at lovelace and eiffel's alien antennae] yay symbolism


	10. Rehearsal - 07/11/16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is where the m rating starts :v if you dont like implied sex scroll really fast until you get to the break

“So, what do you say? I’ll blow you if you let me use a cannon during the overture.”

“... Well, I’m not averse to the idea.” A belt, then a zipper, then the sounds of fabric sliding on skin. A huffed laugh. “Is this how you normally negotiate for privileges?”

Rustling. A dry chuckle. “Nope. You’re the exception.”

“I’m flattered.” A quiet inhale. “Hm. Good boy.” A quiet moan. “Oh, you like that, hm? Would you rather I kept talking?” A sharp exhale. “You like it when I tell you how good you’re being, don’t you? You always have. You’ve always done everything I ask you to.”

A gasp for air. “Are you going to psychoanalyze me the whole time?”

Light chuckling. “ _Pfffft_ , God no. Unless... you want me to?”

“ _Ugh_ , stop pulling my hair! Jesus.” A sigh. Then a muffled hum as he settles back into the groove. The slick sounds are muted in the small space, but more than made up for with a slow deep satisfied stream-of-consciousness drawl.

“You’ve always been so loyal. That’s one of the things everyone’s noticed about you by now, I bet. You cling to my every word, you do anything I ask, and people can’t help but wonder... what do you want from me? I don’t think you know yourself well enough to answer that.” His voice grows infinitesimally shakier. “You pretend you do everything of your own volition, but I see the way you look at me. You’d ruin your own life if I asked you to. And that’s the thing I appreciate about you the most. You’re such a good boy. You would go so far. You’re the best right-hand man I could ask for.”

A slightly desperate moan.

“So beautiful. It always amazes me how far you go for me. I tell you to do something not just anyone can pull off, and- you always deliver... the best you can give me. You never ask for anything in return.”

“Oh, shut up,” he murmurs, exhaling, then returns his attention to its previous focus. Wet kisses are muted in the small space, and before long he resumes his previous actions, more impassioned this time.

“I’m still offering, you know.” A shaky breath. “You can’t wear that binder forever, and you know I’m still offering to pay- _oh_ , God.” He grunts, gasping.“Daniel- I- _God_.” A hissed curse, then a deep shuddering breath. Heavy breathing joined by another slightly off-time breathing cycle. “That was great, I... thank you.” Deep breathing. “You still can’t use a cannon.”

“... What the _fuck?!_ ”

Clothes rustling. “We’re late for rehearsal. Let’s go.”

 

Jacobi storms into the rehearsal room late and furious, Kepler right behind him with a suspiciously beatific smirk on his face. “Okay, let’s fucking get set up,” Jacobi spits, opening his bass case with more force than strictly necessary.

“What the hell?” asks Eiffel. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing!” Jacobi insists at the same time as Kepler says, wiping his hands down fastidiously with the charm-sized hand sanitizer on his bag, “Mr. Jacobi... tried to persuade me... to get some cannons for the 1812 Overture.”

Jacobi drops his bow, double bass protesting hollowly. “I sucked your dick!” He scrambles to pick it back up.

“And I said I’d think about it,” Kepler answers smugly, “Not that I would necessarily agree to the cannons if you... blew me.”

Jacobi scream-gargles through gritted teeth and turns to heaving his bass upright with a vengeance.

No one else is sure how to respond to anything like that.

“Anyway.” Kepler shakes his hands dry, then flips his score open. “Let’s get warmed up, then take it from D in 1812. Everyone look alive about the key signature.” Lovelace shrugs humorously at that.[1]

They get within a few measures of N before Kepler decides that’s enough of that and starts dishing out the criticism.

“Hilbert, look alive,” he drawls acidly, tapping the score with his baton. “Those rests at 108 until E are _there_ for a reason.”

Hilbert grits his teeth.

“Are you looking hard enough? If you don’t straighten that out in the next few minutes, I’ll _drill_ it into your head. Maxwell, your weak point is five before F. Be better.”

Maxwell rolls her eyes. “Yessir.”

“Let’s run the oboe solo one more time from A.” They comply, and he leads them through until the Largo before he decides that it’s enough.

“Let’s go from the top. I want the introduction to be heartfelt.” He looks like he’s reminiscing about something, fingers pinched as he weighs them. “Evocative. You’re _yearning_ for something. And that daydream is keeping you going through everything that the world tosses at you.” The ensemble exchanges glances. “It’s the core of your inner resilience.” He stands there, looking thoughtfully into space, as the orchestra struggles with how to respond to this spiel, and then shakes himself out of his funk. “Alright. Gently, from the top.”

They restart the opening around six times. Finally, they go ahead, having crescendoed late enough for Kepler’s satisfaction. They build, steadily, they tease the choral plea out to its fullest until the tide of the narrative sound changes. Kepler seems pleased with their progress, leading them through the emotional crests and valleys of the overture, right up to the familiar joyful volley of the anthem. Hera swings the timpani mallets with as much force as she dares, sound almost lost in the ringing room, and for a moment they all feel... big. Effortless. Part of something bigger, individual yet altogether. The ritardando shakes them out of it, and as it ends they begin to wake back up.

The last chord hangs in the thick air, and Kepler drinks in the looks of tired but triumphant musicians as it dissipates. Minkowski laughs a little in her dazed pride, and Lovelace and Eiffel grin at each other and bump fists.

Kepler’s pleased with their performance at this point, so they leave it at that and move to the Symphony.

“I want this one to be the most grand opening you’ve ever experienced,” he tells them just before counting them in. “You have to feel _proud_ of yourselves.”

“Don’t know her,” mutters Eiffel under his breath.

“Let’s go.” He readies his stance, seeming to draw on something in himself, and counts them in, grandiose sweeps keeping time, and they begin to play. A particularly loud clarinet shriek pierces the triumphant chord, and Kepler drops his hands, horrified at the interruption. “Maxwell!”

“Sorry,” Maxwell says blithely. “It’s my reed.”

He stares at her oddly. “Don’t do that again.”

“No can do, sir,” she responds, becoming serious. “The weather’s not great for reeds today.”

“It _is_ very humid today,” Hilbert interjects. Maxwell turns away from him, as if to say with her expression, _I’m not affiliated with him._

“I wasn’t asking you, Hilbert. I’m talking to Maxwell.” Kepler stares her down. “You have more reeds, don’t you? Swap them out.”

Maxwell rolls her eyes. “Yessir.”

“Everyone else, let’s take it from the top. Maxwell, join us when you can.” The beginning chords do benefit from Maxwell sitting out as she pulls out another reed and sticks it in her mouth, sitting and waiting for it to wet.

They draw to a stop under Kepler’s commands, and on his cue, resume with a furtive quadruplet,[2] delicate notes creeping up the register and volume scale. They reach A. The crescendo grows, unfurling itself, and Maxwell rejoins them just as they hit the second phrase in the forte. Kepler cocks a smirk at her, she raises her eyebrows, and they continue on with the music.

At D, they crash to a breath pause, which is supposed to be followed by an ascending staircase of eighths. Instead, a stricken-looking Jacobi, jolted out of whatever reverie he was lost in, scrambles to set his fingers in place at the right time, producing a garbled avalanche that Kepler immediately drops his hands for. The orchestra skids to a halt.

“Jacobi,” grits Kepler, lowly. Jacobi looks away, and Eiffel can see the stormy frustration wrestling across his face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jacobi says blankly. “I lost it.”

“Be _better,_ ” Kepler snaps. “Do you want to do that again or are you going to work on that yourself?”

Jacobi glares at the chair between him and Eiffel, then stares balefully at Kepler. “I’ll work on it myself, sir.” Kepler runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

"Well, let’s take a break. Come back in five minutes." Most of the orchestra disperses, and Jacobi slips up to the conductor's stand.

"What do you _want_ from me?" Jacobi can be heard asking. Kepler looks at him, unmoved.

"I want you to be a competent bassist."

“I’m _trying_.”

“Trying’s not enough.” Kepler folds his arms over his chest. “Look at what I have to work with, Jacobi. Just look around you. I need to have _someone_ other than Maxwell that I can rely on.” Softer now. "I know I can trust you, but you have to show me you can get it together before the concert. Don’t make me swap you out for Lorenzo."[3]

Jacobi appears to be struggling with himself. He finally sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I know, sir. I'll do my best to not let you down." He looks as if he's going to say more, then bites his lip.

Kepler pats him on the shoulder. "Good man."

“But, you know, Brahe hates you too much to get anywhere,” Jacobi can’t resist adding, a wry tired smirk playing across his face.

Kepler’s smile is only a few degrees warm, not strong enough to become a full emotion. “It was worth a try.” His smile vanishes. “Daniel. I’m serious. I need you to step up.”

“I know, sir.” They stare at each other, some helplessly void emotion lacking warmth spanning the gap between them. “I know.”

Lovelace, watching them, scoffs to Minkowski. “They’re really not getting anywhere, are they?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to interfere,” Minkowski frowns, her arm around Lovelace’s waist. Lovelace puts her arm around Minkowski’s shoulders and they stand close.

“Maxwell says it’s been going on for years.” Lovelace rests her head on Minkowski’s affectionately.

“Six years,” Hera supplies from the percussion barricade.

Lovelace whistles. “You hear that? Six years. They’ve gotta move it along _sometime._ ”

“Alright, everybody, come back,” says Kepler once Jacobi has wandered back to his stand. “Let’s go with Autumn.”

“I’m gonna do something about it,” Lovelace promises Minkowski. Minkowski looks affronted.

“Isabel, no.”

Lovelace’s smirk is wide and bodes no good. “Isabel, _yes._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry this is late........ i have depression  
> [1] - With the sheet music I'm referencing the first French horn does not have a key signature change anywhere in the part. Is this just an F horn thing? We don’t know. (But also, dead jokes.)  
> [2] - If you _really_ want to get technical, it’s marked as a grace note triplet in front of a quarter note at the allegro vivo, but it is played as sixteenths ending on beat 1.  
>  [3] - For those of you not familiar with the name: vlasdygoth's oc [Lorenzo Brahe.](http://vlasdygoth.tumblr.com/post/159980133606/aaa-so-i-scrolled-through-your-blog-and-i-found)  
> next installment will feature more thirst, more angst, and more b99 references


	11. Rehearsal - 14/11/16

Neither Jacobi nor Kepler is in a better mood come next week. The tension is palpably choking, neither of them looking at each other as the orchestra opens rehearsal with Little Russian. Kepler seems to be finding every single fault he can in Jacobi’s playing, ranging from “your entrance after the allegro vivo needs to be quieter to built the suspense” to “you should be playing double upbows before C”.

“Jacobi, downbow,” snaps Kepler at F. “Mark it, because we’re going from the top.”

“Yessir,” Jacobi’s frustration is obvious. Kepler counts them in, but they don’t even make it to rehearsal letter A before he scraps it. “Jacobi! I _told_ you that’s not quiet enough. Didn’t anything get through to you?” He moves away from the stand as if to get in Jacobi’s face. Jacobi half-rises off his stool, visibly boiling under his skin.

“Look, I said I was _trying_ , and you need to give me _some_ benefit of the doubt, okay? Because no one can be as perfect as you, and I’ve _always_ been good enough for you, so-”

“You two need to bone,” sighs Lovelace.

A collective silence falls on the room.

“ _Isabel,_ ” hisses Minkowski, wincing.

“Repeat... your last?” Kepler asks, painfully slowly.

“You two,” Lovelace repeats, gesturing at him and an openmouthed Jacobi, “just need to bone already.”

Jacobi sputters. Eiffel whispers ‘holy shit’ and puts his tuba down. Maxwell and Rachel look vaguely amused but dreading at the same time. Kepler, for once in his life, looks to be at a total loss for words. He opens and closes his mouth, aghast.

“I... Miss Lovelace... How _dare_ you suggest that to my _face_?” He struggles for more words. "That is _highly inappropriate_. I do _not_ appreciate you speculating about your colleagues like this, I am your _conductor_ and how _dare_ you make such a comment to me-"

"What? You're never going to have the balls to just _talk_ it out with Jacobi," Lovelace snarks. Kepler opens and closes his mouth like an enraged puffer fish, sputtering. He snaps to look at Jacobi, and Jacobi gestures helplessly.

“I- You- Jacobi. Come with me.” Jacobi looks entirely too thrilled about Kepler’s fist in his shirt collar, and stumbles over himself keeping up with Kepler. The door closes behind them heavily and the room falls silent. In the wake of their exit, Rachel starts to pack up.

“Wait, where are you going?” asks Eiffel.

Rachel chuckles mirthlessly. “I hope you’ll never have to find this out yourself, but trust me, they’re going to take _forever_.” She slings her bag over her shoulder. “Anyway, I’ll see you all next week. Bye.”

There isn’t much for the orchestra to do other than sit around and attend to whatever business they can work on while there. No one else dares to leave, in case Rachel would be proven wrong. But as the minutes drag on, nearing 8:30, they are all forced to conclude that either Kepler and Jacobi had gotten past their allergy of acknowledging feelings, or they were going at each other in graphic ways none of them cared to think about. It’s dark by the time anyone says anything else.

“So,” Eiffel starts lamely. Maxwell rolls her eyes. “Good meeting, everybody.”

“Sure is, Eiffel,” deadpans Lovelace.

He coughs. “I, uh. It’s 8:16. Anyone wanna ditch this popsicle stand?”

“I’d love to,” grimaces Hera, laptop in her lap. “There’s no wifi here and I need to look up resources for this paper.”

“Don’t you have data on your phone?” Minkowski asks.

Hera shakes her head. “The Doctor won’t pay for it and it’s not that much use.” Maxwell bites her lip.

The minutes tick on.

At 8:27 Kepler and Jacobi burst back into the room, having at least had the decency to look some measure of put back together.

“You’re still here?” asks Kepler mildly, at odds with his disheveled appearance. He tugs his shirt collar up to cover some bruises on his neck.

No one else knows what to say. Lovelace raises a single eyebrow. “Rehearsal isn’t over yet.” Jacobi slips into the rows to have a hushed heated debate with Maxwell, complete with snickering (on his end) and grimacing (on her end)

Kepler looks a little surprised. “Yes. Yes, that’s right.” He surveys the room. “You could have gone early if you wanted... as I see Ms. Young has done.” He purses his lips, like he’s about to say something, then shakes his head. “You’re all free to go.”

The orchestra gladly packs up, even Jacobi and Maxwell as they continue to bicker quietly at each other.

“Listen,” Jacobi could be heard saying, if one cared enough to listen to him closely, “I’m gonna call you later, okay? We can talk about it on Wednesday.”

“I don’t _want_ to hear about you and the Colonel’s sexcapade any more than I want to hear about your feelings!”

“You’re getting my sexcapade, and you’re getting my feelings! Who else am I gonna tell? Brahe? Rachel?”

“Go tell Eiffel or someone, I don’t want the details,” huffs Maxwell, sliding her folder off her stand and picking up her clarinet case.

"Well, maybe I will!" He huffs. "Wednesday! Group call! Be there!" She flips him off.

“Jacobi?” Kepler is standing there, waiting for their conversation to finish, looking... unsure. Uncharacteristically, almost shy.

Jacobi straightens up with alacrity. “Yessir?” He approaches Kepler, and they stand there, just looking at each other for a minute. Maxwell shakes her head and pushes past them, muttering “for the love of god already” as she leaves out the back. The tension is gone between them by now, but there is something different that keeps them connected to each other.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go back to my place,” Kepler says softly, “Or... we could go back to yours... Which would you-”

“Um,” Jacobi blurts, a little too loudly. His hand roams subconsciously to his hickeys as he stares at Kepler, entranced, looking positively giddy. “I- we can go back to yours, this isn’t a problem,” he steps closer, “I mean- do you- want to?”

“Do you?” Kepler asks, mild inquisitive expression almost overwhelming to Jacobi.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Kepler smiles. “Well, let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [and then they fucked.png](http://questionablecontent.net/view.php?comic=1453)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> there'll be a short intermission chapter between this one and the next, which will probably be uploaded.... 4? days later. don't count on that i might be earlier or later


	12. Interlude - 16/11/16

“You’ve been ready to jump him for _years_ , Daniel, I don’t see how it’s a surprise,” Maxwell says irritably in the group call as she types. Brahe snaps a rubber band lazily as he listens.

“Because we don’t _do_ feelings, Maxwell!” A cabinet door slams on Jacobi’s end. “You know what he always says!”

“In this boat, we do not feel,” drawl Maxwell and Brahe at the same time, in an uncanny Kepler imitation.

“Yeah! So now that he actually wants to try the feelings thing, I’m panicking because we’ve never done that before, and never to each other!”

“I told you idolizing someone who hasn’t felt an emotion since he was ten was a bad idea,” mutters Maxwell. Then, louder: “Well, this isn’t exactly the best matchup.”

“No kidding,” moans Jacobi, over a thunk like his elbows hitting the counter as he cradles his head in his hands. “Colonel No Feelings and me, your local autistic fuckup.”

“You’re not a fuckup,” Maxwell says automatically. She and Jacobi had spent years together airing out and helping each other get over their hangups about their neurology, so it does come as a surprise that he’s already plummeted to this level of self-depreciation over confronting the existence of his emotions. “Jacobi.” Jacobi grunts, muffled. “Listen to me. You just haven’t spent time trying to recognize what is and isn’t an emotion. You’ll be fine.”

“You still don’t think Love Shack is an emotion?” cracks Jacobi weakly. She laughs.

“Lorenzo?” Maxwell stops typing. “What’s your opinion?”

“I still think he’s an ass,” grouses Brahe, rubber band snapping.

“Lorenzo,” Jacobi groans, “Now isn’t the time for your weird vendetta against Kepler.”

“I’m not done talkin’! Look, if he makes you happy, Dan?” Brahe has gotten closer to the mic. “You’re an adult. You can handle yourself.” His tone of voice indicates he’s not exactly happy with the advice he’s dishing out. “And if you can’t? I’m more’n willing to fuck him up.” Maxwell chortles.

“Thanks, guys,” deadpans Jacobi. Then, softer, unsure: “But... how the fuck do I know if he makes me happy?”

“Oh, Daniel,” Maxwell sighs, softly. No one says anything, so she forges on. “When you feel like things are going your way? And he makes you feel stronger? And nothing can stop you?” She sounds like she’s talking from the heart. “However you feel when you blow something up and it just _works_ the way you wanted it? That’s happy. Is that how you feel?”

Jacobi exhales slowly through his nose, and, though they cannot see it, he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, that helps.”

“Then good for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rehearsals are mondays, this chapter is set on a wednesday, thats how the update schedule and my calendar aligned. look at me go i know numbers  
> what exactly is maxwell talking about? yes


	13. Rehearsal - 28/11/16

“Hey, did you notice the curtain in the second floor window today?” Eiffel asks Lovelace. She glances at him.

“What’s up?”

“Someone swapped it out for a blue one. It’s still pretty eye-burning.”

“Huh. That's weird.” Lovelace turns to Maxwell. “Does anyone else use this building other than us?”

Maxwell shrugs. “Your guess is as good as ours.”

As the room fills, Eiffel questions everyone about the curtain, but only he, Minkowski, Lovelace, and Hera remain inquisitive about the change in 359's color. Still, they get no answers.

“Settle down,” Kepler tells them when the tuning trails off. “I’ve got some announcements to make about the concert.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “I told you you should’ve done this earlier, Colonel.”

“Yes, but you’re not me, Young.” Kepler glances at his notes. “So, just to reiterate, we’ll be away for Bayer for four days or so. Concert dress is black formal with color... hm.... dress rehearsal both the day before and the day of... Yes, where is it? Oh, yes.” He flips the page. “The tour bus will arrive here at around 7 AM on Friday,” he continues. “Anyone else know how to drive a bus? It’s about the same as a van.” The room erupts in chatter.

“We’re taking a _bus?_ ”

“ _7 AM?_ ”

“I have to stay in the same space as _Jacobi_ for more than three hours?”

“Hey, I’m not happy about it either!”

“It’s really not the same,” Eiffel quips dryly.

Kepler rubs the bridge of his nose, annoyance mounting.

“Colonel, isn’t there any other way this itinerary can be spread out?”

“This is most short notice, and I insist-”

“Sir, does this mean you’re driving the bus?”

“- in the future we must be notified-”    

“ _Colonel!_ ”

“ _Quiet,_ ” he roars, and the room stills. “I wasn’t done talking. Anyone who does have driving experience with buses should see me at break so I know who they are. Again, concert attire is semi-formal black with optional color accents. I don’t think I need to say this, but Young, Minkowski, if you’re wearing a skirt, make sure you’re wearing a knee-length skirt or lower. If you don’t own any, wear tights. [1] Young, I expect something soloist-worthy that blends in. Last year’s dress will do. I also have rooming assignments.” He slips a single sheet of paper out of his folder. “Lovelace, Minkowski, you’re rooming together.” They nod. “Rachel, Maxwell, you’re also together. Jacobi, you’re with me.” Jacobi looks _ecstatic_.

“Hera,” he continues grimly, “At Dr. Pryce’s insistence...” He looks at her from across the room, solemn. “I’ve roomed you with Eiffel. I hope that’s alright given the circumstances.”

Hera nods slowly, face scrunched up. She sighs a little shakily. “Yes, sir.” Eiffel looks at her with infinite empathetic pain, but Kepler isn’t done talking.

“However,” Kepler says, and everyone looks at him. “Maxwell and Rachel’s room has a pull-out bed.”

“Oh... Oh, that’s great, sir,” Maxwell responds as she catches on, slightly surprised. “We’d be _thrilled_ to have Hera stay with us.” Hera is looking considerably more cheerful.

“Good, glad it works. Which means,” Kepler continues, “Hilbert, you get your own room.” Hilbert grunts an affirmative, looking relieved. “Any questions?” He looks around. “Okay. Let’s get started with Autumn.”

Rachel has, somehow, improved in the months between September and now. Her performance sparkles in the room, leading the orchestra by the hand as she navigates the acrobatic rises and falls of the solo, scales and arpeggios spinning in a flurry like leaves cascading to the ground, sweet drawn-out notes lilting charmingly so that one couldn't help follow her as she paints a picture of the cozy chill of fall, stepping back to let the orchestra provide the background to make the imagery tangible, then taking the lead again, culminating in several crescendos that trill into the drunkard's slumber.

The soft, drowsy, meandering fragment is sustained by the gentle insistent trot that the orchestra supplies under Rachel's expressive vibrato, giving it the suspense that carries it to Kepler's feet, where he nods slowly before bringing his hands back up to cue them into the lively finale, bobbing in a stream of light, before tumbling to a satisfying end.

Kepler cues their release, smiling, and everyone collapses into an excited chatter about finishing the piece. He allows them time to gush as he looks over the score, then, when he’s satisfied, calls them back to attention. “Shall we go again?”

And so they do, and it can only be described as a sheer emotion as they pour their hearts and all of their energy into creating, into feeling, into the singular goal of bringing the music to life, many hands of the same mind working to contribute to the delicate emotion of Autumn.

Kepler, almost surprisingly, has no criticisms for them, instead grinning fondly as he tells them, “Well, how about Movement 4?”

Still on the high of completing another piece, they move on, and the opening is the most grand it has ever been yet. However, they start to disintegrate just after P, and start to lose steam, nearly missing the pickup to the Presto section altogether.

Kepler puts his hands down, disappointed. “Alright.” He chews on his lip, less angry than the orchestra would’ve expected, and simply raises his eyebrows. “Should we try that again from... N?”

And so they do, but... the moment is gone. Hammering away at the mistakes doesn’t yield much progress, so Kepler leaves it at that and settles in to make some announcements about the trip.

"The tour bus will be here at 7:10 or so, but remember, you have to be here by 7 AM on the second," he tells them sternly. "We'll be leaving at 7:30, but the percussion needs to be moved."

The orchestra groans assorted half-protests.

"I mean it," he warns, frown stormy. "We won't leave without you, but you'll wish you could repeat your life just to prevent it from happening again." He pauses to glare at all of them individually, daring them to protest further, and once satisfied, makes a little shooing hand motion. “You’re all free to go.”

"Eiffel. A word, if you can." Hilbert stands officiously to the side, already ready to leave as Eiffel wrestles with his tuba, and Eiffel looks up, inquisitive.

“Yeah? What’s up, Doc?”

"Your first checkup is scheduled for January 10th," Hilbert tells Eiffel in a low voice, almost glaring over the top of his glasses. “It is regrettable that I could not ask for an earlier time, but...” he snorts. “Bureaucracy. Pah. But that is not the matter. Will that be a reasonable time for you?”

"Uh - yeah, sure. I can make it."  Eiffel stands up, dusting his pants off and hauling his tuba upright in its case. The tuba remains between them, and Eiffel rests an arm on it, almost protective of the powerful instrument.

"Good. Good." Hilbert pauses, then asks, as if he's unsure he should even be thinking it, "What are your... plans, after this orchestra... dissolves?"

Eiffel blinks. "What?"

Hilbert rolls his eyes. "This orchestra is not going to continue after the concert, Eiffel. Kepler has not told us about plans for the new year and the concert is a week away. It is simple logic."

“Huh.” Eiffel thinks about it, then shrugs, laughing a little emptily. “I didn’t have any plans, I guess. Just... try to stay clean, I guess? And keep catching up on Brooklyn 99, man, I haven’t been keeping up since-”

“Enough.” Hilbert rolls his eyes. “That is more than I needed to know.” A pause. “If you say you will be there, then be there.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eiffel is serious, and Hilbert knows he means it. “I’ll be there.”

Hilbert almost wishes he wouldn’t, but promises were promises and they had to be honored. Especially when Mr. Cutter was concerned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update is a little early because we're picking up steam and not gonna lie, i Am excited about pulling this whole thing off  
> [1] - idk why hearing my conductor say that was Embarrassing but im never going to forget it somehow. also because countless other conductors have said the same thing, but..... its weird what sticks in your memory, right?


	14. on the road - 02/12/16

“Morning,” Eiffel greets Minkowski in the weak December night, tuba case up to his sternum. Hilbert nods once.

“Yeah. Morning.” Lovelace comes up to them and nods curtly, setting her French horn down on the frosted grass. The sun is about to peek over the roofs of buildings, tentatively, and Hera, walking up the street to them, looks as if the loose hairs on her head form a glowing halo around her head. The halo disappears as she walks into the building’s shadow, and as she approaches they begin to notice the sheer giddy nervousness she exudes, then the skirt she is wearing, fidgeting with it as if unused to the clothing, as if she was still somehow afraid to be told by someone who didn’t know her that she couldn’t wear it. Lovelace smiles fondly in greeting, reminded somehow of her teenagerhood.

“Looking good, Hera,” Lovelace murmurs, and Hera grins happily, unrestrained, giving them a little twirl to show the skirt off. The Hephaestus ensemble applauds her, scattered compliments warm in the cold morning air.

A relatively small blue tour bus rolls to a stop in front of the group, and they watch as it shuts down and Kepler pushes the doors open from the inside. He walks up to them, bearing take-out coffee cups in a cardboard holder. He hands the cups out silently to everyone except Hera, who declines the one he offers her. The steam rises softly in the sourly chilled air.

“Ah, this coffee is _just_ like making love in a canoe,” sighs Kepler, a faraway look in his eyes as he rummages for his keyring.

“How so?” Minkowski sips at her coffee and tries not to grimace.

Kepler’s smile turns glacial. “It’s fucking close to water.”

No one is particularly sure how to respond to that, letting him unlock the door so they can help Hera transport the various necessary percussion instruments to the cargo holds under the bus.

Ten minutes later, Jacobi, Maxwell, and Rachel show up, hauling their respective instruments and suitcases. The two groups greet each other affably enough, and Jacobi and Kepler share an overly long, passionate kiss that may or may not have involved tongue, Kepler tipping Jacobi’s chin with a gentle grip. Maxwell rolls her eyes dramatically, and puts the snare drum Hera's passed her in the hold before wrapping her girlfriend in a tight hug.

“Hey,” Hera says softly, resting her cheek on the top of Maxwell’s head.

“Hey there,” Maxwell responds, pulling back to cradle Hera’s back in her arms. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m feeling... good.” They watch the sun climb, washing over the comings and goings of the orchestra members, and Hera sighs. “I feel optimistic about this.”

"Well," Kepler says crisply to everyone, eventually satisfied with attendance, sun pulling his features into full view. "Let's get on the road, shall we?"

 

"Hey! Young!" Kepler calls cheerfully.

Rachel does not deign to answer, lip curling in scornful anticipation of what is to come.

"Young!"

She rolls her eyes.

"Andrea!"

"Don't call me that," she snaps, and he grins in the rearview mirror.

"What's the difference between a violin and a fiddle?"

"Don't talk to me," she says flatly, and his grin grows wider.

"The violin burns longer!" He glances at them all, eyes scanning the mirror. "Eh? Eh?" No one responds. He shrugs, mouth twisting in a disappointed pout. "Suit yourselves."

 

“Jacobi get your feet off my chest-”

“Well then get your legs out of my fucking armpits!”

“Guys, can’t we get along?”

“Shut up, Eiffel!”

“I will _turn this bus around if y’all don’t stop arguing right now_ ,” roars Kepler. Everyone shuts up immediately. “Good. Hands and feet to yourselves.”

“Yes, Dad,” calls Maxwell a little mockingly. She shoves Jacobi's feet off of herself, and he barely catches himself on the way down.

"Whoa- hey!"

"You heard _dad_ ," Maxwell says smugly, and Jacobi rolls his eyes, but rights himself without kicking her.

 

“Hey, Eiffel,” calls Kepler from the driver’s seat. “How do you get two oboes to play in tune?” Jacobi and Maxwell groan.

“Uh... I don’t know?”

Kepler looks back pointedly over his shoulder with a knifelike grin at Hilbert. “Shoot one.”

Hilbert grumbles something Russian under his breath and resumes staring out the window.

 

“Hey,” says Jacobi, in the silence, staring up at the ceiling of the bus with his head in Maxwell’s lap as she gazes out the window. “Does a cannon count as a wind instrument?”

Total silence.

“I feel like it’s percussion,” Hera ventures.

“Same,” murmurs Minkowski, frown intense as she ponders it.

“What if it was wind, though?” Eiffel looks haunted, his hair a mess as he contemplates a ruffle chip in his hand. “I mean, the air makes the noise, right?”

“But the blast has to count for something,” Jacobi argues thoughtfully.

“It’s not even an instrument,” sighs Rachel.

“That’s what they said in Tchaikovsky’s day,” he scoffs.

The silence stretches on.

“It’s wind,” Maxwell says eventually, finally looking at everyone. “Nothing’s being hit. The sound comes from the air being forced out of the way. But they’re wind instruments like pipe organs are, because they’re hand-operated wind instruments instead of breath-operated.”[1]

“Oh.” Jacobi looks mildly disappointed, then turns over, burying his face in her lap and going to sleep.

 

Kepler stretches at around 2 PM, having pulled the bus onto the side of the road. “Alright, well, I’m taking a break. Eiffel? You want to step up to the plate for a few?”

“Sure.” Eiffel makes his way to the front, where Kepler gets out of the seat so Eiffel can take his place.

“Since when does Eiffel know how to drive a bus?” blurts Minkowski, surprised.

He flashes the peace sign at her. “I was a city bus driver for like three weeks.”

 _"Three weeks?_ ”

Lovelace arches her eyebrows. “We didn’t know that about you.”

“Because I’m an ~international man of mystery~.[2] There’s a lot you guys don’t know about me.” He straps himself into the seat, adjusting the chair position and testing the pedals. “Alright, it’s go time!” The bus lurches forward, and everyone standing stumbles back.

“Eiffel,” yells Minkowski, "Did you get _fired_ from transit?"

"Of course I wasn't!" yells Eiffel back, "What are you talking about? I quit!"

The bus twists and veers all over the road, and Eiffel laughs, the happiest anyone has heard him in a while, but he is barely heard in the clamor of the rest of the orchestra screaming at him to cut it out, with plenty of death threats healthily mixed into the noise.

"Eiffel, put your wheels back on the ground!" roars Kepler above everyone else, looking a little close to seasick himself.

"Yeah, yeah," he calls over his shoulder, but makes no attempt to right the bus. "Isn't this cool, guys?"

“Eiffel,” Kepler thunders, “If you don’t shape up and start driving legally I _will_ take the wheel and we’ll all be listening to country for the rest of the trip.”

“You don’t even like country, sir,” comments Maxwell.

“Oh, I think I can find some enjoyment in watching y’all cringe as Willie Nelson serenades us all with the same song on repeat for the 17th time.” Kepler taps Eiffel’s shoulder impatiently. “The _wheel_ , Eiffel.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Eiffel babbles as he rights the bus. The bus bounces a little as it comes right side up, and within a few minutes everything has settled back into its groove.

Kepler heaves a sigh. Of relief? “Good man, Eiffel.”

He allows Eiffel some space, but never quite takes his eye off of him for the rest of the trip.

 

“Eiffel?” Kepler has come up to the driver’s seat.

“What?” It comes out meaner than he intends.

“Nothing. Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“You - I’m _fine_. I just need to be left alone so I can drive.”

Kepler looks at him weirdly. “Do... you want a cookie, Eiffel? Is your blood sugar low?”

Eiffel struggles with the words. “No, I don’t want a damn cookie, just let me drive!”

Kepler turns back to the bus. “Jacobi,” he calls, “Can you get Eiffel a cookie?”

“I don’t _want_ a cookie,” Eiffel calls after Jacobi as he rummages in a shopping bag.

“You sure? They’re the good kind of store cookies,” Jacobi yells back.

“Keep it down,” Maxwell calls blearily.

“I don’t _want_ a _cookie_ ,” Eiffel hisses again, and Kepler raises his eyebrows.

“I’ll... just leave it on the plate here.” Jacobi comes up and hands him the open box of cookies and a napkin, leaving again, and Kepler sets a cookie on the napkin on the little tray at the front of the bus right next to Eiffel. “If you ever need to talk about your problems, Eiffel, I’m here, you know that?”

“How about you let me drive?” Eiffel snaps flatly, and Kepler takes the hint, nodding graciously and heading back to Jacobi.

 

They pull over eventually for dinner, a bedraggled group filling the Taco Bell as they place their orders, drained as they sit at different tables and ruminate, the few conversations worn out and murmured under the hum of fans and machinery behind the counter.

Bayer, drowsy under the sunset as they step out of the place, is still a little overwhelming.

"There's snow on the ground," Hera says, groggily amazed as their footsteps crunch in the generous clouds of fresh snow, loose and foamy on the sidewalk.

"That's what happens when you travel north, hey?" Jacobi kicks up a cloud of powdery snow, bare hands shoved in his pockets. The snow glitters in the setting sun, baby-blue violets and buttery oranges painting the lengthening shadows and the sunlight in between.

“Just a little while to the hotel,” Kepler tells them all once they’ve crowded into the bus, settling back in. “I’d say... about fifteen minutes.”

One by one, the lights of Bayer flicker on as the bus rumbles through the town, as if to say _Welcome, welcome to Bayer, let us show you the way, we’re glad you’re here._ There is a soothing finality to the illumination, torches in the fading sunlight, promising them, _You have something to do here, after all this time you’ve spent honing yourself into a conduit for its energy, and you will lay it to rest here in a culmination of all you’ve experienced and felt up to the day in question. It is time. You are in the right place._

_It is time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably my favorite chapter so far? i hope it soothes the emotional AAAAAAAAAAAAAA of the latest drop lol  
> [1] - you find a lot of [interesting facts](http://drakanekurashiki.tumblr.com/post/161795159999/i-wasnt-doing-research-for-exsultate-jubilate-so) when you do your research  
> [2] - how is eiffel saying those tildes? we just dont know


	15. Bayer - 02/12/16

The hotel is almost surprisingly cushy. Kepler merely waggles his eyebrows when the orchestra (who were expecting something closer to a motel) try to express that, smiling enigmatically, so eventually they drop it and take to exploring all the features of their rooms.

“Winds, Hera, you don’t need to worry about the overnight temperature if you don’t wanna take your instruments in,” Kepler tells them, an arm casually looped around Jacobi’s waist. “Strings, it is absolutely recommended. Hmm... breakfast is 6 to 9, but I’d like y’all to be there around... say, 8 o’clock. Let y’all sleep in.”

A few grumbles of complaint that that was hardly sleeping in. Kepler shrugs them off. “I’ll let you guys retire for the night once you’ve decided what you want to do with your instruments.”

So they disperse, Lovelace and Eiffel to the pool, and the rest to their rooms, strings and suitcases in tow.

 

Lovelace comes out of the bathroom, toweling her hair dry after her shower to wash the pool chlorine off. “So? Any updates?”

Minkowski looks up at the TV, still on the news, then turns it off, shaking her head. “None of it is good.”

“Mm. Figures.” Lovelace flops on the bed opposite Minkowski’s, then pauses. “Wait. Do you hear that?”

Minkowski cocks her head. “It’s coming from the room beside us- oh. Oh.” She grits her teeth. “Tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

The wall thumps, and muffled voices can be heard, drawn out.

 

“Ugh,” groans Maxwell as the voices get louder, and they can begin to pick out individual words, no matter how much anyone wanted to never hear anything again. Rachel caps the nail polish in her lap delicately as Maxwell mutters dirtily, “Here they go again.”

“Again?” Rachel looks scandalized.

“Again,” Maxwell sighs. “I’ve been _trying_ to find a new roommate ever since Lovelace got them together, because as much as I love Daniel, there’s no way I’m willingly putting up with this forever. The cheeses were bad enough.”

“Cheeses?” Hera blows on her nails. A muffled moan at the height of indecency fills the pause. Everyone cringes.

“You don’t want to know,” Rachel assures her. “Jacobi had a thing for strong cheeses back when-”

“He _still_ does,” Maxwell says wearily.

“Oh, no _way._ ” Rachel shudders. “That is _inhumane_.”

 

“ _Oh- oh my_ God, sir _, yes,_ yes _, oh my_ God-”

“I’m going to kill him,” monotones Lovelace, now sitting propped up on the bed.

“ _Sir- please - yes, yes yes yes yes_ yes _ohhh fuck,_ fuck _me, holy shit-”_ The wall across from Lovelace and Minkowski thumps repetitively, and Minkowski growls and shoves her head under a pillow. Kepler says something in reply, muffled by the wall. Jacobi keens, and Lovelace growls to drown him out, pulling out her pocketknife to play with intently.

“I can’t do this,” snaps Minkowski, sitting upright and slipping her feet into her shoes. “I have _got_ to find somewhere else to sleep, or I am going to _kill_ the both of them!”

“Go see if anyone has any earplugs,” Lovelace calls after her, “Or headphones.”

 

“What?” says Hilbert a little more loudly than necessary. “No, I don’t have any more earplugs.” He scowls and shifts in the doorway, obscuring the suspicious vine plant sitting under the desk lamp. “Ask Eiffel.”

 

“I don’t have any either,” Eiffel tells her a little desperately, headphones around his neck. “I mean, it kinda helps that I’m across the hall and not, like, adjacent to the blast zone, so, like... ?” He gestures helplessly. “I dunno, man, unless you guys wanna move in, in which case I can definitely trade?”

Across the hall, Jacobi yelps, and both of them wince.

Minkowski nods grimly, sighing. “It’s better than nothing.”

 

"Did the catfights get to you last night?" Eiffel asks everyone dryly in the dining room, nursing a black coffee. Hilbert looks like he might either shatter or explode if one talked to him and his abhorrently-scented take on chai coffee.

"Jacobi kept me awake with his _yowling_ all night," Lovelace mutters loud enough for people to hear, and Minkowski shudders at the memory. Both of them look like they’ve aged overnight, with blooming dark shadows under their eyes.

“I told you earlier,” Rachel sighs moodily, picking at her eggs. “I told you they’d be at it _forever_.”

Kepler waltzes into the dining room heralded by his stylized whistling of the 1812 Overture, suspiciously cheerful as he smiles at them all and pours his coffee.

They glare blankly back at him.

“Well? How’s everyone doing?” He takes a sip of coffee. “It’s a good morning, don’t you think?”

Nobody has any words for him that wouldn’t involve graphic depictions of murder. He shrugs jauntily. “Suit yourselves.”

Jacobi saunters in moments later, wearing a low v-neck that reveals more of the tattoo sprawling against his neck and dark bruises that should be covered by the collar of a dress shirt. He looks unbearably smug.

"How'd you sleep last night?" he asks Minkowski cheerily, humming as he pops bread into the toaster.

Minkowski, at this point, is seriously debating throwing her plate at him like a frisbee, fruit, eggs, toast and all. “Bad,” she replies curtly instead.

“Oh? That’s too bad to hear.” He smirks at her and she considers briefly whether she could get away with murder even with so many witnesses.

“Was it any better?” Eiffel asks her lowly as she comes to sit with him. Lovelace storms into the dining room, snatches an orange from the fruit bowl, and plops herself down across from them.

“I mean, it got better, but not much,” Minkowski sighs, stabbing limply at her sad eggs.

Eiffel rubs his forehead sleepily. “You guys had a pretty shit room, though, so any step away is a step up, hey?”

“I’m going to throw this orange at you if you don’t stop talking, Eiffel,” Lovelace says pleasantly as she peels the fruit in a long unbroken coil.

Eiffel shuts up, but not for long, as Hera stumbles ungainly into the dining room, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Whoa, nail polish?” he toasts her. “I like the turquoise.”

Hera rubs the back of her neck shyly, grinning. “Maxwell and Rachel helped me paint them.” She looks tired, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. "There wasn't much else we brought to do..." Lovelace pulls up a chair for her, and she accepts thankfully. "It's been... a long night."

"Amen," Minkowski mutters.

"So," Kepler drawls once everyone's more or less gotten food in themselves. "Everyone ready to meet the concert hall?"

"Meet?" Minkowski asks.

"Well, sure! You have to treat your concert space with respect, right? It doesn't have to like you or your instruments." He sips contemplatively, winces, and continues. "We have two sessions of rehearsal in the hall in as many days before we put on the concert. Do you all think you can handle that?"

Various tired murmurs of assent.

Kepler throws back the dregs of his coffee. “Dress rehearsal is at 9:30 at the hall. Meet me in the lobby by 9 and we’ll drive there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! im really sorry this is late, im gonna be fully transparent here: as much as i wanted to have this thing up and posted like clockwork, due to a combination of depression, my computer shitting itself when i so much as think about opening google drive, and art school taking itself more seriously than i expected, i ran out of content buffer. also i signed up for the big bang.... again. so i am going to effectively disappear and updates will happen as they go.  
> i have absolutely no idea who's still with me at this point, but thank you to everyone whos been reading, and a big thank you to everyone who's left comments! they're the main reason i've kept writing for this long, and i hope you all stick around for the grand finale.


	16. Dress Rehearsal #1 - 03/12/16

Bayer is a small town subject to the wintry rages that Nemea[1] is not. The instruments perhaps fare better than the musicians do, the majority of the ensemble not used to the chilly weather, having brought their strongest winter clothes that were still not enough for Bayer’s crooning winds.

The concert hall is spacious, far more expansive than anyone would have guessed from the atmosphere of the little town. Kepler shows them through the backstage maze like he’s been there before, and maybe he has. The passages become uncomfortably narrow, made more so by the percussion instruments the orchestra have to haul through the labyrinth with them. The air is incredibly dry and warm, prompting Rachel to grimace as she pulls a tube of chapstick out of her bag, balancing a snare drum and her violin case on one hip.

Their rehearsal room is a mishmash of bare pipes and old-fashioned furniture, a sprawling labyrinth that extends further than Kepler will let them explore.

“Don’t waste time, I want you all to get set up,” he tells them, clipped. “We have to be on stage in ten minutes, we’re not the only ones whose time is being taken up today. Bathrooms are to the left if you need them.” And he turns around, leaving them to their own devices as he helps Hera take the extra percussion upstairs to the stage.

Hera returns moments later, alone, rifling through her bag for her mallet wrap.

“Hey, where’s Kepler?” asks Eiffel, breaking off from playing random circus tune basslines.

Hera shrugs. “He said something about talking to the sound booth?” She stands up, clutching her mallets, then disappears back upstairs.

The acoustics of the underground space seem to simultaneously swallow and amplify their sound, and warmup dwindles after a while, turning into noodling as they wait for Kepler to come back. Maxwell, Rachel, and Jacobi fall to discussing something heatedly under their breaths, and Minkowski, Lovelace, and Eiffel congregate, shooting each other dubious looks as they all wait for Kepler.

He eventually comes back in five minutes, clapping to get their attention. “Well, if you think you’re all prepared, let’s not waste any time and get up there, eh?”

So they do.

The lights are searing onstage, adding a sense of immediacy as they break into formation, rearranging seats as needed, scraping chairs and tentative warmups echoing muted in the echoing space.

Kepler comes up behind Jacobi, a hand draping casually over his waist, the other on the upper bout[2] of his bass. “Daniel? If I gave you, say... three mics, some scaffolding, and fifty party poppers.” He raises his eyebrows humorously. “Would you be able to simulate a cannon?”

Jacobi laughs, somewhere between strangled indignance and hilarity. “I- what? Thanks,” he muses, still chuckling. “I... yeah? Thanks? I can make it work.”

“I know you can.” Kepler smiles dashingly and pats him on the back, then walks off to make sure the orchestra formation is appropriate for their ensemble and clear to the members.

Once they’ve all gotten into formation, Jacobi still scratching his head over the puzzle of the mock-cannons, Kepler raps the conductor’s stand with his baton, imperious and imposing above them. “We’re going in concert order. First 1812, then Autumn, then Tchaikovsky.”

The hall swallows their pianissimos, so Kepler makes them restart, louder this time to compensate, teasing out the heartfelt plea of the prayer, uplifting the sound, spilling into the Marseillaise, then crashing into the French retreat and the iconic theme, and for a moment the orchestra feels not like many people, but two in a dialogue, or even one, responding to Kepler's instruction as if fingers responding to his thoughts. In the deafening silence that follows the end, all that the members can hear past their thundering hearts is their labored breathing, though the ache lessens with each practice and rehearsal. Still, the reminder of surpassing their bodies' limits is welcome.

They run the overture a few more times, stopping every so often to work out last-minute snarls, and Kepler decides to call it there at a quick glance at his watch.

“Good work.” The praise is well-earned in the light of the concert hall, which seems to bleach out all memory of the past moments, but at the same time the immediacy of the lights is alarmingly real. "Let's move on."

The rest of rehearsal passes in a flash, Rachel's clear violin in Autumn ringing in the space, and the fourth movement passes by in a heraldic thunderstorm that leads to a furtive caper that rocks itself into a fanfare that scurries and prances into a stretch of horizon that tumbles into a mighty cavalcade that eventually knocks itself down, returning to the lulling waves before bouncing between a tense build and blasts of fanfare. There are moments that they use to stop and patch up any holes, but when all is said and done the moment hangs suspended in the floodlights, a golden pearl built from the time put in before coming to Bayer.

"Well, I don't see the point in keeping you," Kepler says eventually, hands on his hips. "You've earned the day off. Go see the town. Get some lunch. We'll regroup tomorrow at 8 AM."

“Couldn’t sleep?” 

Eiffel has no idea how Jacobi found the roof. In all honesty, he doesn’t know how he found the roof either, cold air seeping into his bones.

“Not really,” Eiffel admits as he sits down next to Jacobi, the two men separated by a cardboard box of beers. “Drinking? Now?”

“I’m an adult, I can buy my own shitty booze if I want it like that.” Jacobi pats the 6-pack. “Want one?”

“No thanks.” Eiffel stares at the town below, face crystal clear in its inscrutability. “I... I dont want to do something I regret.”

Jacobi shrugs. “Fair.” He picks his own opened drink up and takes a sip, then looks over. “What’s keeping you up?”

Eiffel laughs brokenly. “I dunno, a lot’s been on my mind lately. I guess just... seeing all of my friends get together.... it made me feel a little alone? Haven’t really felt anything worth pursuing since... Kate.”

“Aw.” Jacobi claps him on the back. “You want me to kiss you?”

Eiffel frowns. “What?”

“You want a kiss? Just to feel like you’re not left out of the party?” Jacobi raises his eyebrows. “Don’t give me that face.”

“But... you and Kepler.”

Jacobi sighs, and swigs his beer. “What he doesn’t know won’t- look, Eiffel. Kepler does what he wants, I do what I want... it’s complicated, okay?”

“Good talk,” deadpans Eiffel.

“Okay - look.” Jacobi gestures with the bottle. “I’m open. He knows this. He’s... not always okay with it, but... he likes it. I like it.” He shrugs, a tiny helpless jerk. “I’ve always been like this.”

“Is... that what you’re up here for?” Eiffel asks, not exactly willing to mention the elephant between them. Well, the alcohol. But it is preventing him from just leaning on Jacobi.

Jacobi laughs quietly, breath rising in a puff. “Naw, I’m... celebrating. Commemorating, I guess.” He drinks deeply, looking into the distance, then sighs, closing his eyes. “Around this time of year, when I was, uh, in university... I was just... I was just a kid. I didn’t know... okay. So. When I was just starting out in university - imagine me. Little old Danny Jacobi. 18, just got a job in this lab - we were testing, researching, working on firearms. And... I dunno. I’ve always been into things that go boom since I was a kid. And my dad didn’t care much for that, but who gives a fuck about him.” A bitter laugh. “I dunno. They trusted me. This scrawny kid who didn’t know how to fire a gun. They wanted me to be the one to fire it, and- I don’t know. I panicked. I’d never  _ held _ one before.” He falls silent, then: “I keep telling myself the supervisor was just in the way, it was an unlucky shot, I was just too early, the trigger was too sensitive, whatever. But... I still killed him.”[3]

There is more silence. The cold air, warming up between them, goes frozen again.

“They let me go,” Jacobi tells the town of Bayer. “Of course they let me go. I nearly failed everything that year, but Kepler - he reached out to me. He argued my case with Cutter - don’t look at me like that, I only know as much of what Cutter does as you do. Kepler got me back on my feet and... I’d.probably be dead without him.” He says it matter of factly. “I literally owe him my life.”

Nothing is said. Two cars pass by on the street directly under them.

“So that’s why I’m... commemorating.” He nudges Eiffel. “You still want that kiss?”

Eiffel barks a laugh, surprised, his breath a fireball of steam. “After you told me you owe Kepler your life? As in Kepler, who you’re  _ dating? _ ”

“I just want something simple right now, okay?” Jacobi runs a hand through his hair. “I - I don’t know how to feel about Kepler right now. Because - because now - I’ve wanted him for years, but now that I have him I don’t know how to feel. I really do... love him. I’d die for him if he fucking  _ asked _ me to. But - I don’t know how to  _ feel _ now that I have him. I just want something I do know, and that’s that I’m buzzed and I’m polyamorous and I want to get kissed without wondering about the weird power dynamic behind it, because normally I love it but right now, I’m not feeling it.” He huffs. “Take it or leave it, Eiffel. What’s it gonna be?”

Eiffel hesitates, then, slowly, he turns to Jacobi. “I... if that’s what you want.”

Jacobi smiles, such a raw grateful gentle thing that Eiffel can’t help but feel his heart melt a little, and reaches over to cup his face, and Eiffel leans into his touch, his skin feverish against Jacobi’s cold hand, and their lips meet and all he can think about is Jacobi’s lips, Jacobi’s nose, pressed cold and dry into his cheek, Jacobi’s hand warming up on his skin, Jacobi’s eyes, half-closed, not quite looking at him, but close enough to be trained on some part of him.

The kiss is soft and slow, and though it must have been a minute it feels like it lasts a warm eternity. From the looks of it when they part, it was everything Jacobi wanted, unfocused expression dazed and satisfied.

“We’re never mentioning this again, are we?” Eiffel breathes.

Jacobi bursts into laughter, throwing his head back. “Nope,” he pops the last consonant, “Noooo, we are  _ never _ talking about this again unless you want to get serious.” He shakes his head. “And you don’t wanna get serious with me.” He stands up and dusts the roof gravel off his sweats, and Eiffel watches as he stretches. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

“I’m fine.”

Jacobi tips his hand at Eiffel in a lazy salute, picking up the 6-pack as he does. “Well, see you around, then.” And he walks back into the hotel, leaving Eiffel sitting there for a moment.

Then Eiffel sighs, gets up too, and makes his way back inside. Jacobi was right, feelings were difficult and sometimes all anyone needed was something different, something simple.

This time, he feels like somehow he’s made everything more complex than it needed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (breaches the water with a gasp) I LIVE............... im currently on reading week so although i have a lot of hw im trying to write as much of this i can!! only 2 or so chapters left before we can explore the lovelace administration and the aftermath of exsultate!  
> [1] - Nemea as in the home of the Nemean Lion, the inspiration for the Leo constellation.  
> [2] - i had to look up [violin anatomy](http://www.mandolinluthier.com/images/Violin_Anatomy.jpg) and they must be the same as you get bigger, right?  
> [3] - yay........................... i was thinking making jacobi even more directly responsible for someone's death would be a good tradeoff for the fact that no one should be letting an 18 year old near explosives. ttbot is mostly about his guilt, i feel, so im happy with the way ive reworked it to fit exsultate  
> The performance space I'm envisioning is [Pantages Playhouse](http://www.pantagesplayhouse.com/), where we had all our youth orchestra performances. You don't have to reread with that in mind, but I've always found it interesting to know where the author pulls inspiration from.


	17. dress rehearsal #2 & concert

Rehearsal is a little stilted at the beginning due to the need to get used to performing in formal clothes, but eventually they get back on track again. After rehearsal the next morning, Kepler deems them ready for the concert, or at least ready as they’ll ever be.

“Gather back here for 6 o’clock in your formal clothes,” he tells them, “Otherwise, you’re free to explore what Bayer has for you. Maxwell? Young? Maybe show them the mall, take in the sights.”

“Yessir,” they chorus, looking less than enthusiastic.

“Jacobi, you’re with me, so we can figure this... puzzle out.”

“Sure thing,” drawls Jacobi.

“Great. Well, see y’all then.” He and Jacobi walk off into the wing, deep in discussion about their little secret.

“I didn’t even know Bayer had a mall,” Rachel grimaces to Maxwell.

“It’s not hick-fuckville yet,” Maxwell deadpans with the slightest hint of a smirk.

Jacobi glances Eiffel’s way, the first time they’ve made eye contact since last night. Eiffel raises his eyebrows. Jacobi winks, with a pale imitation of his usual cheesy smirk, then turns around to deal with his and Kepler’s dilemma.

Eiffel gulps.

 

“So,” Eiffel begins, food court tray dangerously close to being visited by his elbows, jabbing his chopsticks at Minkowski. “Would you rather fight a thousand duck-sized horses, or one horse-sized duck?”

Minkowski gives it careful consideration. “A single duck,” she declares, taking a bite of her burrito.

“Explain.” Eiffel squints at her.

“Well, it’s just one duck, isn’t it?”

“I’ll stuff and mount it after you win,” Lovelace says, deadpan, patting Minkowski’s free hand.

Minkowski smiles at her, then turns back to Eiffel. “Anyway, this isn’t even a decision. Who wants to fight a thousand horses when you know you only have to fight one duck?”

Eiffel shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to be in one of those fight montages, you know? All like ‘Ha! Hyah! Take _that!_ Come at me, there’s more where that came from!’” He makes the accompanying martial gestures, and Hera ducks to avoid his flailing.

“And then you go down in a blaze of glory,” replies Lovelace, sipping a smoothie.

“But _then_ I rise from the depths of despair, laughing like a-”

“And then you go down in a blaze of glory, again.” Her tone says _this conversation is over because you know I’m right._

Eiffel deflates. “Yeah, that’s more realistic. But _still._ ”

 

“It’s about time,” declares Lovelace after a glance at her phone. The group is standing next to a fountain, Hera taking the moment to put down the bag for the clothes she’d just bought. “Rachel said we should be back at 4.”

“What? Why?” Eiffel looks between his friends, completely lost. “Kepler said 6.”

“Because hair and/or makeup is going to take that much time, if not longer, Eiffel.” Minkowski sighs and hoists her backpack. “I’m not looking forward to this.”

“I am,” Hera murmurs at no one in particular.

Minkowski’s face softens, then she steels herself. “Well, we’re off.”

“You can go window shopping,” Lovelace tells Eiffel, amused. “Did you bring a tie?”

Eiffel stares blankly. “Uh.”

She claps him on the back. “There you go, that’s your two-hour mission. Have a tie by the time we meet up again. Got it?”

“Got... it?” He waves weakly as the rest of his crew moves off, and stands there, looking around. “Damn,” he mutters to himself once he loses them in the throngs of mallgoers. “How’d she know I didn’t bring a tie?”

 

“So, uh...” Eiffel looks around the rehearsal room allotted for the rest of the orchestra members to change. Minkowski, Lovelace, Rachel, Hera, and Maxwell had taken up the other room with approximately ten mirrors, so with Kepler hogging the single mirror not in the bathroom, Eiffel had to rely on his formal fashion super-senses that admittedly did not exist. “Maybe if we all look really bad, the... audience won’t expect us to be decent at playing?”

Silence. Kepler raises a single frigid eyebrow in the mirror at him as he adjusts a golden paisley tie to sit perfectly in the fold-over of his indubitably expensive suit jacket.

“Good talk,” deadpans Jacobi, then looks up from his shoelaces, an inscrutable expression on his face. “Here, your blazer’s all... let me help.” Kepler watches in the reflection as Jacobi goes to rest his hands on Eiffel’s chest, as if he’d gotten lost on his way to him, then snaps out of it and busies himself arranging Eiffel’s lapels, not looking him in the eye.

“Thanks.” Eiffel longs to bridge the gap, both emotional and physical, but with Kepler right there he’s not sure it would do anything more than put Jacobi in trouble.

“Yeah, no problem, man.” Jacobi avoids looking up.

“By the way,” Eiffel says slowly, reaching behind himself, “Do you know how to tie a tie?”

“Do I-” Jacobi finally looks at Eiffel properly, revealing his navy-blue bowtie, then his eyes go wide at the offending article Eiffel is holding out. “Wh- why did you bring _this?_ ”

Eiffel shuffles his feet abashedly. “Lovelace told me to buy a tie?”

Jacobi purses his lips, trying not to smile, and shakes his head. “I can’t, um - mostly because I usually-” He turns to Kepler. “You wanna help out, babe?”

Kepler finally turns around, both of his eyebrows shooting up this time. Both men stand there sheepishly as he struggles to find either the words or the patience, or maybe both. Eventually, he just sighs and takes the tie from Jacobi’s hands. “Fine. Eiffel, where did you get this?”

“Hot... Topic?” whispers Eiffel.

Kepler closes his eyes, pained, as he continues to knot the horrendous tie around his neck.

 

Kepler sends Jacobi to make sure the others are ready. He comes back with them in tow, instruments at the ready, and Kepler nods, satisfied.

“Let’s go,” he says softly, and they filter out of the rehearsal room in no particular order.

“Whoa, Maxwell is _stunning,_ ” breathes Eiffel. The plastic hibiscus in her hair looks real from a distance, and her dress projects the air of timeless confidence as she walks at the head of the line with Kepler, just as modulated calm as he is.

“She’s always been beautiful,” hisses Rachel. Eiffel chooses not to comment on the wisp of nostalgia and longing in her eyes. “Took you long enough to appreciate it.” Rachel herself is in a dangerous-looking black cheongsam, embroidered red roses climbing her chest on her right side. Her violin gleams in the backstage lighting as they climb the stairs, and she tsks as she hikes up her skirt.

“Keep going,” Jacobi murmurs, annoyed, hoisting his double bass.

“I am!” she snaps, hustling up the rest of the stairs with her stilettos hanging off the steps. “You try going up stairs in heels!”

“Have you tried not wearing daggers on your feet?” Lovelace interjects in front of them. Her heels are more sensible lace-up boots that inexplicably go very well with her pencil dress. Kepler shushes them all violently, and they fall silent, shuffling along.

Somehow Minkowski ends up at the back of the line with Eiffel, dressed in a loose black gown belted at the waist, hair done up _impeccably_ , in Eiffel’s opinion, and she looks over at him. “You ready?” she asks, then something arrests her gaze. “Eiffel... What are you _wearing?_ ”

“A Star Wars tie,” Eiffel says feebly. “From Hot Topic.”[1] There would be no point defending himself to Minkowski.

Who, in any case, looks like she’s about to explode. “You- _why would you wear a Star Wars tie to the most important concert we’ve ever had!_ ”

“Shut up,” hisses Hilbert. His suit has seen better days, but it still serves him well, teal tie a solemn line. “We are at the stage.”

They are. Minkowski gives him one last affronted look before she stalks off, the entire orchestra rearranging themselves to walk in section by section. Jacobi shrugs at Minkowski, and Eiffel can hear him say, “Well, hey, no one knows what you’re wearing when you’re the tuba, right?”

Hera gives Eiffel a nervous smile as he passes her. He winks, smiling more bravely than he feels. “You’ve got this, darling,” he whispers. “You look _great._ ”

She ducks her head shyly. Someone’s braided her hair in a vaguely Greek updo, and her hands are balled at her sides in the fabric of her long charcoal wool skirt, belted just above her waist, on top of a long-sleeved black dress shirt cuffed with lace. “Thanks. I like the tie.”

Then they go on.

The lights are too much for them to see the audience, and they can all feel the heat of the bulbs. The tension is a living creature, lifting them by the neck and heart towards Kepler, who looms above them like a self-assured lion in the spotlight. They take their seats, putting their music on their stands, and he adjusts his tie, opening his score, then looks around them one last time, gathering himself. Finally, he nods, mouths _1812_ at them, and takes the microphone from its stand, facing the audience.

“Good evening!” he announces, bowing. “I’m Warren Kepler, conductor of the Nemea Orchestra Ensemble. We are an exercise in minimalism, to test how many instruments can be removed before the music starts to lose its distinctive wholeness, and we have a repertoire of rich pieces for you to judge the end result for yourself. For our first piece of the night, we have a classic for you: [the 1812 Overture](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VbxgYlcNxE8),[2] by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky. It has a slow buildup, but I’m sure you will recognize the distinctive anthem at the very end if we have truly done our jobs. Enjoy.”

The silence before the initial drop of Kepler’s hands is choking. The strings lead first, lingering on the plea, coaxing it into a tangible line of music, developing the phrase and cresting several times, breaking over like a wave on the shore. Maxwell answers them, a seeking thread that is met with some kind of answer she chases into the strings, Hilbert joining her, mounting until they are joined by Hera, who brings them all to a peak, cascading into a current of tense flurries that Hilbert sustains a solitary thread over as Jacobi pours himself into the crescendos, Minkowski forging on as Rachel responds to Jacobi, Hilbert fading into the onwards march as Jacobi wars with the strings, Eiffel and Lovelace interceding with their piece to say, Hera guiding them towards the spotlight.

Eiffel and Lovelace burst onto the scene, the violins dancing up and down their strings behind them, and as Eiffel blows his lungs out, impactful blasts that create a staircase for Lovelace to descend, and redescend, twice each time, he watches Rachel and Minkowski bow furiously, almost making it seem effortless as their fingers reach for the next note as soon as the current one rings. They all join together for a culminating fanfare that Hera rounds off, Jacobi and Eiffel entering in the relative silence, heavy and pensive, making eye contact for an eternity of a split second across the held notes, and Hera takes it from there, crisp military beat rising out of the fog, jolting Maxwell and Hilbert to action, the Marseillaise almost jaunty as they press into Russian land, Lovelace joining them as Rachel and Minkowski conjure a sheer wall of adamant solidarity. Kepler motions for Eiffel to keep his sound to a low until he casts them off, strings launching into a cascade of Escher stair arpeggios, hurrying on and on, trying to make it somewhere in time, chasing the French strain that has disappeared. The brass and strings culminate in a frenzied avalanche, Hera shooting them down with her ominous drumrolls.

How can this piece be going by so fast? thinks Eiffel. They must’ve only started playing a minute ago.

The Marseillaise returns, Lovelace proud and boisterous among the swirling strings. _Enfants de la patrie, le jour de gloire est arrivé,_ she promises triumphantly, strings blustering around her, an agitated howling wind that Hera joins in on, rattling the snare, prompting Jacobi and Eiffel to join the fray, adding their solid voices to the chaos. Everyone circles around each other, round and round, blurring into one as Lovelace seizes the melody once more, then relaxing, guiding the piece into the shifting tides of another contemplative section.

The strings tease at the melody with finesse, Hera not far behind with her precise triangle strikes, shifting the picture being painted into that of a far-stretching snowscape, cold and wondrous, and the winds take over, instilling an unsettling strain that only stills the music for a moment before the tambourine accompaniment guides them into the image of a forest, hungry, dark, full of branches that swallow up the sound. Jacobi becomes the driving force behind the mass of encroaching sound then, providing a platform for the tension to spread, the Marseillaise taking on a hostile tone, building and building, becoming a storm as they careen towards the final battle, Hera seemingly everywhere at once. The threatening sound gives way to a clear passage of prayer, heartfelt and tide-like, finally resolving into a stiff flurry that grows torrentially into the grand occasion, cannons at the ready, both forces growing, strings on one side, Lovelace against them, and the pressure builds and builds until the cannons go off in a powerfully joyous revolt, flurries of strings after the aftershock engulfing everyone after the initial blasts.

It’s like he can almost hear the cannons, Eiffel thinks, and - and he realizes: they _are_ cannons. No, that’s not quite right, they’re - the party poppers set up behind him? Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jacobi’s eyes dip closed in glee every time a popper goes off directly into the waiting microphone. The church bells are ringing proudly now, he can see Hera striking them with all she’s worth, but he can’t spare much time for her right now, this is the grand leadup to the iconic theme, he has to be the driving bass behind the celebratory proclamation, which Kepler is drawing out, letting it ring... and then they’re off, into the part everyone knows best, and the poppers really do sound like cannons, he feels them in his chest every time they go off, and suddenly all too soon they’re descending into the final phrase and the bells are ringing and they’ve done it, they’ve won, they’ve poured every ounce of their exertion into this victory - but hold that note, hold the ending, because Kepler wants this ritardando to be grand... and they’ve made it.

The most unrealistic thing about this concert is that no one’s fucked up yet, thinks Eiffel, and then it sets in, in the momentous deafening silence just before the audience starts to applaud. Oh, god, they’re really doing this. They’re really doing it.

“Well done,” Kepler breathes, low enough to miss. His knuckles are tense, though no one would notice that. Then, louder: “Autumn now.”

Kepler introduces the piece, and Rachel stands up gracefully, moving to stand next to him without a word. He introduces her, and the audience applauds politely. All too soon, it is time to play.

This version of [Autumn](https://open.spotify.com/track/76orchj7jpJ0VGDNsvjYoV)[3] may not have been what Vivaldi envisioned, but it sounds just fine. Rachel’s solo sound is rich and expressive over the accompaniment of Minkowski, Jacobi, Hilbert, and Maxwell, of course not intense enough to match the emotional rollercoaster that was 1812, but the prim and proper rendition of the piece had its own charm, a piece of fall suspended in the air. Her first solo is a sprinkling of falling notes, leaves floating in the wind landing in piles at the audience’s feet. The orchestra prompts her to summon a quick updraft, flurries of leaves coming in bursts short or long, her body language expressive as Kepler watches her out of the corner of his eye, prompting the orchestra to support her at the right volume at all times. Rachel tumbles into a segment of delicate, precise notes that build, leading the accompaniment back to the rich sound, which she then abandons after a phrase or two, traversing her strings repeatedly, at times staying on a string, eliding dips sounding as if she were unraveling something more conceptual than her instrument, perhaps unraveling a part of space itself. The accompaniment brings her back to the wholesome palette of fall, sending her off into another dazzling pattern, then coming to rest in the shepherd’s sleep. Although they aren’t resting, no - Kepler’s eagle eye is making sure they stay perfectly on task, quietly marching on, while Rachel spins the autumnal dream, vibrato hovering in the open space of the concert hall, lulling them to sleep, fading into the distance... until Kepler gives the signal to the waiting accompaniment, and they round off the piece with a return to the original theme, sauntering along and landing perfectly on the last chord.

The audience applauds, and Kepler bows, grabbing the mic to thank them and introduce the last piece.

“... We’re returning to Tchaikovsky now,” Eiffel tunes in just in time to hear him say. “A lot of his works don’t receive the attention they deserve, so for our finale, why not perform _a_ finale? Here’s our version of [Tchaikovsky’s second symphony, movement four](https://open.spotify.com/track/4prcwYVrlBBu2tngPBLppY). Y’all have a good night, alright, and thank you for coming. Enjoy.” Kepler gives his orchestra a solemn sweep as he holds their gaze, then smiles, a subdued mixed emotion in the shadows, and raises his hands. They tense.

The beginning chords are a blast of power and emotion, trembling with the energy being thrown into the notes. As the phrases forge onwards, an onslaught of noise, Kepler keeps it slow, weighing it down, emphasizing the gravity of the phrases, Hera’s timpani rolls a furious battering at the limitations of their bodies that cannot carry the sound any further than they currently have. Kepler cuts Hera’s ominous rolling off a few beats after the sharp blast from the strings and Lovelace, and they wait, for the sound to dissipate, for him to lead them forward.

Rachel and Minkowski start them off, a dainty introduction of a theme that doubles and quadruples in complexity, joined by Jacobi, then Maxwell, then Hilbert takes over, before returning to a shifting seascape that Jacobi leads and unfurls below the surface, breaking water every so often to shout a phrase before plunging back into quiet, furtive racing notes. It’s like a seesaw, Eiffel thinks, listening to the emphasis and tone moving between different sections of the orchestra as they scurry up and down their scales. The music scampers along, gaining volume, until the strings are engaged in a heated-back and forth that breaks with Rachel and Minkowski furiously downbowing the emergent melody solo, the orchestra reengaging behind them for a few measures before moving back into long shifting notes that are backed by a hurried repeating climb. The tension mounts, Hera urging it forwards, until they all stick on the same arpeggio, getting more and more intense, leaving the percussion to fill in the gaps, then an uphill vault from the violins launches them into a full-orchestra repetition of the main theme that dissolves into a back-and-forth of single punches from the strings and brass.

The scenery melts into something more placid, the violins filling the air, joined by Lovelace and Jacobi, who turn it into something more anxious, harried, and Hera reintroduces herself, the woodwinds filling in the gaps between the short tense spurts of noise from the players on the scene before, bringing the intensity back down so that the strings can resume a more furtive scuttle that Jacobi and Eiffel once again insist on bringing back to the theme in the form of a fanfare that melds and shapes itself into a deep, calm descent as the higher strings work themselves to a tension that snaps. Eiffel can almost hear the anxiety in Minkowski’s repeated climbing chords, punctuated by Hera and the bass drum, which he and Lovelace answer with solid low notes. They repeat the call-response phrase, and the strings catch on, piling onto the low instruments’ descent into relative peace and quiet, like slowly drifting thunderclouds. This opens the air up for the woodwinds, who converse on the theme with Jacobi and Eiffel keeping the dialogue from becoming too light, then the strings intervene, bringing it back to the idyllic delicate secondary melody, that soars and broadens into a jerky rocking back and forth from the strings that tumbles into the theme briefly before a volley of percussive brass brusts interrupt, taking the spotlight before working themselves into a mounting strain of stressed string and brass mountains and valleys. The theme is reintroduced, almost unrecognizable in the first few measures, then emphasized at the ends of its explosively emotional phrases with pushes from the bass drum and low instruments that Eiffel can feel buzzing through his body.

The strings and woodwinds return yet again to quietness, the violins driving the mounting pressure, woodwinds responding by upping their response to an almost panicky shout, Hera overtaking the strings with her timpani, until the anxious burst of energy pops, leaving Lovelace out in the open until the strings try again. The build to a higher level of emotion is slower this time but still rocks faster and faster until the violins and woodwinds are at each other again, ascending and descending respectively, Jacobi and Maxwell descending both in volume and tone until they bring the orchestra back to the original theme. The build this time is more joyous than any of the past repetitions of the theme, and the orchestra passes around the melody, iterating it over and over until Rachel takes over with a dancing piccolo melody - a piccolo? Eiffel cranes his neck and sure enough, Rachel’s put her violin down in favor of a piccolo as the strings back her up in a bounding whirlwind of bows that explodes yet again into a series of long notes that sternly drive them back to calmness. Hera backs them up with a gong strike that ripples to life, roaring louder and then dissipating into the silence.

This is it, then. Kepler has started counting in one-beat measures, and everyone responds to his terse movements, keeping their notes short and intent, hurrying through the repetition of the quiet setup. Then he throws his hands in the air and they respond in kind, returning to the main theme like a joyous fanfare, pouring the sum of their hearts and bodies into the music, barreling headlong into the final moments of the piece, of the concert, of all the time they’ve spent in rehearsal in each other’s company. Eiffel feels almost lightheaded as he rushes along with them, violins working overtime in front of them as they climb and climb, and maybe he should stop expending so much air but this is it, this is it, they’re so close to the end and there’s only the one crumpled descent from the strings to worry about, and then all too soon they’ve hit the end of the piece, they’ve offered everything they have to give, and Eiffel watches Kepler even as he’s blowing his lungs out each time the final chord sounds until Hera’s thunderous roll slows to a purposeful march and Kepler cues their last note for the final time and all of their eyes are on him and... he releases them.

There is a dazed silence, in which the deafened musicians slowly lower their instruments, and the audience begins to applaud. That jolts them out of their haze, and it dawns on Eiffel, an easy concept but a momentous one that slams into him like a brick wall: they’ve done it.

Holy shit, they’ve done it.

Kepler bows as Eiffel wrestles with the concept, and before he knows it they’re all filing off stage as the audience also stands up to leave.

“I messed up so many times,” grimaces Minkowski as they shuffle into the wings, and Eiffel looks out into the audience one last time. He catches the eye of one of the audience members, and he almost freezes - the man looks almost like himself, but clean-shaven, wearing a suit, no glasses - he looks like Eiffel, if Eiffel weren’t such a mess, if Eiffel had been given the tools to get ahead in life and had wielded them well. He - he looks so _other_ to Eiffel that the thought of him being more than a constructed nega-Eiffel would be too much to bear. _I’m going to call him Bob,_ Eiffel thinks, _and hopefully never have to think about him again,_ then hurries to join Minkowski.

“I didn’t notice you mess up,” he tells her truthfully. “I thought it was weird that everyone was doing so great!”

“No, I definitely messed up during the last piece three lines after C,” she responds snappishly, then huffs. “That’s the energy talking. I’m not... it was still a good show.”  
“We did the best we could in the time we were given, and that was still pretty damn good,” Lovelace contributes. She and Hera have come to walk with Minkowski and Eiffel’s slightly slower pace, and Lovelace pecks Minkowski on the cheek. “Any regrets?”

Minkowski considers it, then shakes her head. “No, I’m glad it turned out the way it did. We’ve done well this year.”

“Amen,” agrees Eiffel, and they walk back to the dressing room where the rest of their triumphant orchestra waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everybody its yule! happy yule! im dead. art school murdered me dead (i never want to see another depiction of jesus ever again) and then i carved out parts of my soul to get this done before the new year. heres a very long chapter to make up for my absence!  
> [1] - dont tell me if hot topic actually sells star wars ties i dont want to know  
> [2] - [IMSLP sheet music](http://imslp.org/wiki/1812_Overture,_Op.49_\(Tchaikovsky,_Pyotr\)) (Leipzig version).  
> [3] - [IMSLP sheet music.](http://imslp.org/wiki/Violin_Concerto_in_F_major%2C_RV_293_\(Vivaldi%2C_Antonio\)) For Rachel's solos, my personal copy of the Bärenreiter violin/piano sheet music was referenced.  
> [4] - [IMSLP sheet music](http://imslp.org/wiki/Symphony_No.2,_Op.17_\(Tchaikovsky,_Pyotr\)) (version B, movement 4).  
> thanks for putting up with me so far! one more chapter left :>  
> ps - urbina if youre reading this Pryce And Cutter Should Have Been Aliens Everything Was Pointing To It And You Know It


	18. home - 05/12/16

They’d had a modest celebration back at the hotel: Kepler had bought a cake and some pop beforehand. He’d made a short speech about how proud he was of them, and it was unfortunate their time together was coming to an end, but music was eternal, and... honestly, Eiffel tuned the rest of it out. He’s more preoccupied with how Jacobi still isn’t attempting to reach out to him about... whatever they had going on, and Eiffel’s honestly no less confused than he was last night.

The bus trip back to Nemea takes 11 hours, but it feels more like an eternity. Eiffel has given up on sneaking glances at Jacobi, who finally comes over and sits down next to him without announcement or fanfare a few hours in.

“Hey.” Jacobi jostles him lightly with an elbow. “Got a minute?”

“Well, I’ve got plenty of minutes to spare.” Eiffel spreads his hands out, gesturing at the sleepy bus, at Minkowski sleeping on Lovelace’s shoulder, at Lovelace playing some kind of phone game, at Rachel typing away on her computer, at Maxwell and Hera deep in conversation, at Hilbert staring moodily out the window with a book in hand. “What’s hopping?”

Jacobi blows air through his teeth, then sighs, then runs his hands through his hair, then shakes his head and breathes deeply. “So... I told Kepler about... us.”

Eiffel finds himself gripping his armrest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Uh. I like you. And I... liked that kiss. But I still really want to be with Kepler, so I... okay, this isn’t working. Let me start over.” Jacobi sighs roughly, then gets to the point. “I told Kepler I wanna date both of you at the same time, you two don’t have to date each other, he’s okay with it, do you want to date me.” He inhales slowly, then lets it go. “That’s it.”

Eiffel allows his brain a few moments to work on those statements. “I - really?

“Dude, I don’t lie,” Jacobi scoffs, and Eiffel pretends not to notice the rubber band he’s anxiously snapping on his wrist. “Are you in or out?”

“Uh - I -” Eiffel waits for his brain to catch up with his mouth. “Yeah! I - I wanna try. I mean...” He glances around the bus, then continues. “I care about you, Jacobi. I’ve realized this. And... I wanna make something out of this. I want to make something work.”

There’s that smile of Jacobi’s, that gradual split of his mouth into a shy grin, and suddenly Eiffel realizes he has dimples, and they’re very close, and - and oh, Jacobi’s tilting his head in and Eiffel leans into the kiss, closing his eyes.

“Thanks,” Jacobi murmurs, without any of the emotional turmoil behind it last time they’d seen each other in this light and proximity, and Eiffel feels a surge of affection, feels proud that he now has someone to care for himself for, and that’s not healthy, he knows, but it’s the best he can do, and that’s pretty damn sweet.

He slings an arm over Jacobi’s shoulders and Lovelace waggles her eyebrows at him. He pulls a goofy face, and she smirks and gives him a thumbs up. Jacobi flips off Kepler in the rearview mirror with a small chuckle, and Kepler’s eyebrows raise humorously in the reflection.

Damn, Eiffel thinks, life is really gonna get better from here on out.

 

“I want to thank you all,” Kepler says on the intercom as he pulls into the outer limits of the town, and Eiffel stirs, noticing Jacobi’s head resting on his shoulder.  “For... the experience.”

“We do look better on paper than in person,” snarks Maxwell.

Kepler shakes his head in the driver’s seat, fondly annoyed. “Will you let me finish or are you going to waste my time?”

“Shutting up, sir.” She mimes zipping her lips shut and throwing the key behind her.

“Thank you.” They travel a few more blocks before Kepler continues, having found the words. “We have worked... incredibly hard these past few months. Some of us have had to work harder than others to catch up. But we have all shed blood, sweat, and tears to bring our music where it is, and we did it together.”

Eiffel glances at Jacobi.

“I got a papercut at the concert,” Jacobi grudgingly admits, voice deep and rough from sleep. “He’s being dramatic.”

“I know I have been short with you. You may resent me for things I’ve said, or done, or haven’t done. But you have all risen to the challenge I’ve presented, and I cannot have asked for a better group of musicians.”

The streetlights shift constantly, lending an air of transience to Kepler’s heartfelt words, difficult to pry from his mouth. They roll to a stop, and he sighs over the intercom before continuing. “So, long story short, I wanted to thank everyone for being here, for coming on this journey with me.” The bus starts moving again. “It’s been swell, and I wish all of you success and happiness in the coming year.” He turns onto a small street, and the familiar view of Wolf Street greets them, transformed in the dark. “And here we are.” The bus rumbles to a stop in front of 359 Wolf, and Kepler stands up, still holding the mic. The lights flicker on and the doors open. “Have a good night folks, and happy holidays.”

A scattered applause fills the air, and the now-former orchestra begins to straggle off the bus, the outside chill and the finality of reality settling in, shrouding them thickly. Eiffel gathers his things, glancing around for Jacobi, but he’s already gone, presumably to check on his bass.

“Doug,” Kepler greets him when he steps off, cocking a grin at him. This one is honest, Eiffel thinks, it’s a genuine emotion that wants to be honest with him.

“Uh... Warren,” he returns, bending over to clamber into the hold of the bus to retrieve his tuba.

“Well, I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other next year, eh? What with Daniel...” Kepler rubs the back of his neck. “Mm. I don’t think I need to tell you that if you make him upset then you’ll have to answer to me. Right?”

“I should be saying that to you,” Eiffel blurts before he can stop himself, then grimaces.

Kepler freezes with his hand on his neck, then instead of getting angry like Eiffel expects, he simply raises his eyebrows. “Yes... you’d be in good reason.” He sighs, then smiles to himself. “Well, in any case, it’s good to know where we stand with each other. Would you like to come for coffee with me and Daniel sometime before the New Year? Any plans then?”

“I, uh...” Is  _ Kepler _ hitting on him now? He can’t be. “Are you asking me out?”

“What? No.” Kepler straightens up, businesslike again. “I’m simply asking you to have a conversation about the dynamic of our relationship with Jacobi, and our expectations for the relationship. That’s all there is to it.”

“Well...” It’s Eiffel’s turn to rub his neck. “Yeah, that’d be cool.” He extends his hand. Kepler takes it, shaking firmly.

“So it’s settled. I’ll be in contact.” Kepler tips an imaginary hat at Eiffel, then walks away to the rehearsal building.

Hera and Maxwell, meanwhile, have gotten off the bus, and Maxwell looks at Hera, taking her hand gently.

“Well.” Hera won’t quite look at her. “This... is it, then.”

“No it’s not,” says Maxwell, simply, and Hera whips to look at her.

“What? I’m going back to the doctor. She’ll put me in a stranglehold. I -” Hera takes a deep breath, calming herself. “I can’t go back to that, it’s going to destroy me.”

“We  _ will _ win, Hera,” promises Maxwell, taking her girlfriend’s hands. She stands on tiptoes in her heels to kiss Hera tenderly on the cheek. “It might take time, but we will do this, and we can do it together. I’ll keep fighting for you this whole time.”

“Maxwell,” Hera whispers softly. “It’s not going to be this simple, I- you don’t know her-”

“I know. I know that.” Maxwell squeezes reassuringly. “But I know what it’s like to have to stand on your own feet without anyone’s help, and yes, it is scary, yes, it’s hard, but I’ll be here. You have my number. You have... a lot of my social media. You’re welcome at my place any time. We can make more spaces for you to exist. You don’t have to be tied to her forever. We can make it.”

Hera closes her eyes, breathing deeply, and Maxwell waits for her to recenter herself. She nods. “Alright. But promise me you’ll listen when I don’t want to do anything.”

Maxwell bites her lip, but nods. “I will.”

“That’s the end of that,” Lovelace sighs, gazing around herself with her hands on her hips, breath rising in the cold night. “Ready to go?”

“Almost,” replies Minkowski, taking one last look around the bus for lost items, then accepts Lovelace’s hand in getting off the bus. “I’m going to miss being in an orchestra.”

“Hey, it won’t be all that bad.” Lovelace hoists her French horn case so her grip is more comfortable. “Not having to put up with Kepler is going to be... so relieving.”

Minkowski snorts. “Well, yeah. Of course there’s that.” Her face softens, and she glances down the street as they walk towards their car where Hera, Maxwell, and Eiffel wait. “But I can’t feel like something else is missing...”

“Mhmm?” Lovelace kisses the top of her head. “Can I suggest something?”

“What is it?” Minkowski’s fingers twine with hers.

Lovelace pulls slightly back, so Minkowski can see her face, and says, in all seriousness: “Want to get married?”

Minkowski... stands there, face working, and Lovelace can’t help but smile goofily in response to the growing joy on Minkowski’s face as she struggles with the right words. Eventually, Minkowski gives up on words and grabs Lovelace’s face, kissing her firmly under the lamplight, and Lovelace kisses her back, holding her tight as they sway together. She’s always known Minkowski is better off as a woman of action than words.

“I love you, Isabel Lovelace,” hisses Minkowski as they part, and Lovelace grins.

“Is that a yes? I don’t hear a yes.”

“Yes, yes, of  _ course _ I’d love to.” Minkowski kisses her again and pulls her towards the car. “Come on, let’s go get our kids home first.”

Lovelace laughs and follows, the sound bright in the still night air, and in that moment everything feels spectacular. Everything feels wonderful. She’s invincible, she is surrounded by people who love her that she loves, and no one has killed each other yet. She’s still here. Minkowski is still here. Eiffel, having struggled so hard to stay among them at first, is still here. She’s ready to chalk this year up to another victory, and start the next year primed for another.

The future is malleable, the future is bright, and they’re going to make their own happiness with their own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it! 58 pages in google docs and so, so much more than the 8k words i promised when i started this fic....... thank you to everyone whos come along for the entire ride with me! thank you for making my 2017 a lot less shit than it could have been!
> 
> if theres anything you guys want to see more of/have answered/cleared up in the sequel, id love to have your input! have a good 2018!


End file.
